The Boy Saw A Comet
by heythereanna
Summary: "He knows her better than he knows himself even after all of this time; body, mind, spirit and soul. Because you don't just forget about a once in a lifetime woman like Brooke Davis. Not after two years of her being the center of his universe." AU Brooke/Conrad
1. Near To You

**Title: **The Boy Saw A Comet**  
****Author:** heythereanna (Anna)  
**Pairings:** Conrad Hawkins/Brooke Davis**  
****Rating:** MATURE; Language, Adult Content **  
****Disclaimer: **I own absolutely nothing, even though I wish I could take Mark Schwahn's position and remake seasons four through nine of One Tree Hill.  
**Author's Note: **I have to give a big thank you to SeraphCherub for her incredible Conrad/Brooke videos, which have inspired this fic. It's taken me a long time to get back to writing again and I'm so happy to be here. Thank you for those loyal readers who have stuck with me, you have no idea how much you are appreciated! I hope you all enjoy it. Don't forget to review!

**_\- - - - _x - - - -**

**_The boy saw the comet, and he felt as though his life had meaning._**

Like clockwork, he bikes to work every morning.

It's his calm before the storm, despite the hazardous way that he rides. It's not what anyone would describe as a leisurely cruise, the kind where people notice the small things around them and talk about how the sun was _just_ right when they get to wherever they're going. It's the kind of ride where he doesn't feel like he's done it right if he doesn't almost get hit, if there's not some kind of danger rushing past him as he speeds through the downtown Atlanta traffic like a bat out of hell. His girlfriend - because they've finally put a label on it after months of back and forth - calls it his ride on the edge, and she's not wrong.

It's the one part of his day where he's not dictated by the _don'ts_ that come with everything else. _Don't_ piss off the hospital board. _Don't _talk about Nic's sister. _Don't _get in too deep with his dad. _Don't_ have a PTSD episode. In the fourteen minutes it takes him to get to Chastain, _don't_ slips off of his shoulders and slides down the titanium alloy frame of his bike. _Don't_ spins out of the spokes of his wheels and skitters across the pavement until it lands in the gutter, until it can't touch him or run his life. And even if its just for nineteen minutes of music filled solace, of pure adrenaline, it's worth the chance of getting dragged down the pavement by the grill of a mack truck.

The fourteen minutes it takes to lock up his bike and get down to the emergency room doors is when he lingers in thought. It's the only time for the next twelve hours that he'll have the time to think about something other than his patients, where he isn't consumed with fight or flight at every turn.

He thinks about Nic, wondering where she might be in the hospital and if their breaks will match up at some point in the day so he can drag her into an on call room for some much needed alone time. He thinks about his father who's currently in the VIP suites for his recurring Crohn's Disease, and makes a mental note to stop by his room later. He thinks about Devon, of his catastrophic wedding that hadn't really been a wedding and wonders if it'll affect his performance this week. He thinks about Lane, his mentor, and wonders if she'll manage to make bail for the damage that she'd caused. He thinks of Lily, wondering for a moment if she's found the peace that she was so desperately begging for when she died in his arms.

He thinks of everyone but himself because that's just who he is. In fourteen minutes, he runs through every single self centered ideation he can think of, because he knows that he can't afford to after the second that he walks through the emergency rooms doors. Even while he's changing into his scrubs, while he's listening to the nurses chit chat about the latest VIP patient that's being transferred in from the Carolina's, he zeroes in on the task at hand: running the ER the best way he knows how.

The world around him becomes nothing but sound and movement as he gets into the ER and immediately rushes to the metallic shock of a defibrillator, adrenaline pumping through his veins as he slides into a pair of gloves with ease. Standing at the bedside of a middle aged man who appears to be having a cardiac episode, he's in his element, doing what he was born to do. He's known it since he was a kid that he wanted to be a doctor, that he wanted to save lives. He's taken some detours to get there, the dog tags swinging from his neck showing his service to the outside world, but he's here. Here with Nic, here with an incredible job, here with his dad that he's finally building a relationship with. Here has a future that's almost easy, the kind where he can see himself settling in and actually being happy with that.

"Alright, I need an amp of bicarb, one of epi and can someone _please_ get the family out of here!" He calls out as he struggles to get around a clearly distraught wife or girlfriend - he doesn't care enough to know right now. His focus is on the man that's running asystole in his medical bay, on the guy who may not get off his table if he doesn't make the right decisions, and it doesn't go anywhere else. Not to the emergency medical transport helicopter that he can just slightly hear landing over the hospital, not to the room in the VIP wing that's being prepared, nothing. He tunes it all out and runs the code the way that he was put on this earth to do.

He finishes beautifully, with the patient being wheeled up to the cardiac wing while he catches his breath on the sidelines. He spots Nic over at the nurses station, entering in charts, and he smiles because it's his moment to grab her and sweep her into any kind of hospital grade sheets. It's his chance, and he's about to take it.

"Dr. Hawkins."

Conrad groans internally, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath before turning around. The CEO of the hospital, great old hands of death and destruction Dr. Randolph Bell stands before him with a fake smile plastered across his face. Mutual hatred simmers beneath the surface, and he can't help but smirk at the medical politician standing before him.

"Dr. Bell," he sighs, leaning against the crash cart as he looks to his "superior". If only he practiced medicine as superbly as he clings to his precious title then maybe, just maybe, Conrad could actually see eye to eye with him. Perhaps then he wouldn't despise him for killing a few of his patients. "To what do I owe the pleasure of you gracing the emergency room with your presence?"

"Oh don't worry, I'm not here to chastise you. Not today at least." Bell says with a patronizing smile. "But you can knock the sarcasm down a notch or two. Might do you some good."

"And where would be the fun in that? Come on, that's our thing. You tell me I'm arrogant, I tell you that you should retire before you kill someone, you make messes all over my patients' care and I clean them up and keep you from losing your medical license." Conrad's smirk deepens to a half moon grin. "Now, why don't you just tell me what you want and get out of my emergency room."

Bell glares but he doesn't retort, showing his focus. He just hands him a medical file as thick as a textbook. "There's a VIP patient that's landing right now on the helipad from Raleigh. Stage four metastatic ovarian cancer. She and her partner had planned the transfer before the Lane fiasco happened and it took moving mountains to keep them from transferring to another facility."

"Who's the important one?"

"They both are. The patient runs a record label and the partner is some fashion designer, and they both make a combined donation well into seven figures to hospitals of their choosing each year. One also _happens_ to be close to one of your old friends, Jude Silva."

Conrad raises an eyebrow as he looks through the file. "So what you're saying is you need me to go in there and handle everything so Silva and his patient don't take their wallets somewhere else, even though this woman only has a thirty percent chance of living another five years." He shakes his head as he scans the file, shaking his head.

"She's twenty nine, Conrad."

He looks up at Bell as his thoughts of Lily bubble up once again. She had only been twenty six when she'd died, when she'd been murdered in cold blood by a doctor who was supposed to protect her, save her. Not make her sick in the first place. Conrad's grip tightens on the folder as he silently nods, his eyes meeting Bell's in a silent agreement.

"Suite 108, I'll meet you there after letting Doctor Pravesh know that he'll be running the emergency room today. And please, Conrad. Try not to mess this up."

He rolls his eyes as his superior walks towards a trauma bay, moving to the nearest elevator before he can get tugged into another case. Conrad looks back into the file in his hands, making sure to note that the patient's name has been blacked out from the folder. Age twenty nine, born and raised in North Carolina and freshly diagnosed with stage three ovarian cancer. History of cancer in her mother, who died over a decade prior, and the only other notable history is a bullet to the leg when she was a kid. Her tumor isn't just wrapped around her ovaries and uterus, it's in her abdominal wall and heading towards her liver - to call it aggressive is putting it mildly.

As his elevator heads further up into the hospital, he digs a little deeper into the history and begins to realize why the case is so important to Bell. The billables for the chemotherapy and surgical procedures that would need to be done as soon as possible will be through the roof. She'll need round the clock care if she wants a shot of making it past her thirtieth birthday, which spells dollar signs to everyone but him and a few choice doctors in the hospital. To Bell, the woman's a gold mine. To him, she's a patient that's going to need to fight like hell to beat her cancer.

The elevator door opens six levels short of the VIP wing to reveal his favorite surgical resident, Mina, who looks like she just won the lottery as she steps into the elevator with him. "I was just looking for you." Mina murmurs as the doors shut, looking over at him with her Cheshire Cat like expression.

"Oh really, and why would that be?" Conrad replies as the doors shut. "If this is about the ER, Devin's in charge today and I _cannot_ get dragged back down there."

Mina smirks, turning to face him "Don't worry, no one has pissed me off today. At least not enough to warrant me tracking you down, unless you know how to make nurses other than Nic actually do their jobs right." She sighs, pointing to the file in his hands. "Actually I think _that _is what I'm looking for. I need you to get me on that VIP case that Bell keeps talking about."

Conrad raises an eyebrow, turning her way and holding up the file. "What, my patient? She's the heli transport, hot shot record exec flying in from New York. It's just your run of the mill ovarian cancer case. Her name's not even on the file so it must be top secret."

"It's not her that I'm interested in, it's her partner." Mina says as she grabs the folder, looking through it briefly. "Stage three? She should be stage four with the size of her tumor; it quite a beautiful little parasite. It will be a skillful masterpiece to remove."

"That's probably why she's here. Bell said they applied for the heli transport before Lane was arrested, I'm sure they've been in limbo for the last few weeks just like the rest of her practice." Conrad leans against the back wall of the elevator. "What's so special about her partner?"

Mina digs through the file, not bothering to make eye contact with him. "She's a fashion designer, and a brilliant one at that. She started it when she was only nineteen and her new couture line is absolutely magnificent. But this tumor looks like an expedition, so get me on the case and I'll get you the keys to the chief resident's office again when he heads to another medical conference."

Conrad whistles at the offer, snatching his folder back. "If it'll get me access to that shower again, I'm in. You're my number one recommendation, as always."

Mina grins once more as the elevator door opens a floor short of where he needs to be, hopping back on to the floor. "Page me when they are settled and I will swing up." She calls out as she heads out of his view, leaving him shaking his head as it takes off again.

The door opens to reveal the VIP wing, or the land of loaded pockets as Conrad so disdainfully calls just shakes his head and moves past him, heading into the room without so much as a greeting. He doesn't bother with him. He'll be there for ten minutes, do some glad handing with Bell and go on his way. No medicine, no miracle treatments, just ego. All Conrad wants is to see the patient and get to know her before they start hacking her to pieces.

He peeks his head in, hearing the woman talking gently on the phone about a concert - clearly moving around her schedule to fit her treatment. Her honey colored curls are all that he sees, the loose ringlets hiding her face. He swears he knows her voice, like he's heard a thousand times before, but that doesn't make him falter. Conrad simply checks in with a nearby nurse, who informs him that his patient is in good spirits today, and sets her file down on the small desk in the corner while the patient sets her phone down and heaves a sigh.

"You are quite the woman of mystery." Conrad says with a grin as he leans against the chair. "No name on the file, no name on the door, you _really_ don't want anyone knowing that you're here. I guess we can start with an introduction and then we can get to your medical history."

The woman pauses, running her hand through her hair. "Does anyone ever want people to know that they have cancer, let alone when they're dying?" She says with a laugh as she turns around and holds out her hand. "Peyton Sawyer, woman of mystery at your service. I guess you're that hot shot doctor that all of my nurses are telling me is going to save my life, huh?"

Conrad laughs. There's a gentle ease to the woman's movements, from her loose unkempt curls to the soft curve of her smirk. But that voice...it's familiar, too familiar for him not to know. He takes her hand, mirroring her smirk. "Gallows humor, huh? You're a little too young for that."

Peyton smirks again, shrugging. "My mom passed from ovarian cancer when I was seventeen. I know the drill, Dr..."

"Hawkins. But you can just call me Conrad."

She raises her eyebrow, leaning back just enough to survey him. "So _you're_ the famous Conrad Hawkins everyone keeps talking about." Peyton says in an all knowing tone. "Huh. I thought you'd be taller. Broodier, too." She sits down on the bed, settling in beside an iPod and a copy of John Lennon's biography. "My partner should be quite surprised, too. She's talking to that surgeon who's planning to take this beast of a tumor out of me, Dr. Bell. Handsome doctors must grow on trees in Atlanta by the looks of it."

He furrows his brow, cocking his head to the side. He can't help but feel like his new patient has the upper hand on him, and he's starting to get the sneaking feeling that this isn't just deja vu. It's no secret that Marshall's not the biggest fan of his girlfriend, his father always having had all too high of expectations for his son's future, but it be out of his wheelhouse to have his father send him a dying patient to fall for - as beautiful as she may be.

Conrad leans against the nearby crash cart, folding his arms across his chest. "Well, I'm sure your wife and I will get along just fine. How's your pain today?"

Peyton snorts, shaking her head. "Oh _hell_ no. I love the woman, but I'm as straight as an arrow. She's my business partner who is also very, _very_ straight. Marry a doctor and have a bunch of babies kind of straight. She's dating a surgeon who used to work here." She pauses, that same knowing smirk playing on her lips. "Actually...I think you two know each other. Jude Silva."

He laughs again, beginning to realize that this will probably be one of his favorite patients to date if she really does know Jude. He'd figured this had just been a favor for whatever girl Jude's screwing. "Oh really? The two of us go way back to my military days. Never thought he'd land in New York, though. He'd talked about heading overseas when he'd left here." He walks over, beginning to do a preliminary exam on her abdomen as he makes idle conversation. "Why don't you tell me when this hurts, okay?"

Conrad hasn't even started it when the conversation in the hallway begins, the muffled voice clearly female and directed at what sounds like Dr. Bell. He raises an eyebrow once more, looking down at his patient. "Your partner, I take it."

She smirks, rolling her eyes. "_Oh _yeah. That's definitely her." Peyton heaves a sigh, leaning back in the bed and raising her arms over her head. "She's anything but quiet. But that's why I love her. She'll fight like hell for the people she loves."

_"...you are not doing a hysterectomy, that's not happening. Peyton wants children, she wants a future and that's what we came here for so don't tell me that you can't do it! You have to! This cannot be the only option!"_

**_And when it went away, he waited his entire life for it to come back to him._**

It doesn't take more than a few seconds for the door to open for a nurse to pass through, revealing a heated and demanding conversation between Peyton's partner Bell and Jude. He only has a split second of hearing her voice before she turns toward Jude with a determined _no _in her eyes, and it's long enough for recognition to slap him square in the face.

He'd know _her_ anywhere.

Conrad knows that voice like it's the back of his hand because he's been on the receiving end of it so many times he's lost count. The one that sounds sweet as vanilla at a husky whisper, as cold as ice when cutting you down to size, as ravaging as an out of control wildfire when hurling insults and as heartbreaking as a Joni Mitchell song when it trembles with vulnerability. He knows her wit and her often underestimated intellect, the fact that she fearlessly speaks her mind no matter the company or situation present. It's the kind of melody that has the ability to bend whatever will that someone has, because that the kind of woman that owns it; the kind that could bring you to your knees with a simple word.

He knows the lips that the words spill from, the way that they taste like sweet tea on a hot summer's night, the way that just a touch of them could induce a heart attack. He knows the coy smile that spreads across them when she's pleased with herself. He knows the way her bottom lip trembles when she's about to cry, how it slips between her teeth when she's dying to use them for more passionate purposes. He can still feel them trailing up his neck, leaving crimson love letters on his skin until she'd whisper how much she loved him in his ear.

He knows the chestnut tresses that curve around her dimpled face, the stray hairs that he used to tuck behind her ear when she'd been endearing or needed reassurance, the ones that get carelessly thrown up into a messy bun when she's working on a sketch. He knows the feel of the soft curls that he used to aimlessly run his fingers through when she'd sleep soundly on his chest, the halo they splay out into on silk pillowcases and his skin.

He knows everything that her striped blue button up and ripped up jeans keeps from the world. He could draw her body with his eyes closed if someone asked, do it with one arm tied behind his back if he really had to. Dolled up with every step of her make up routine or naturally gorgeous at three in the morning, he knows her. He'd spent hours upon hours committing every inch of her porcelain curves to memory as she'd laid beside him, their limbs a tangled mess of sweat and love and naked skin. He knows the scar on her left ankle is from when she broke it at cheerleading camp, the location of her very cleverly hidden tattoo, the way that her toes curl when someone runs their fingers down her spine from neck to base.

He knows the green and gold flecked eyes that look up to Jude filled with agony, the ones that drop to the floor as she concedes to the surgery. He knows that they tear up whenever Casablanca ends, that they shine brighter than the sun when she's surprised with flowers, that her defiant gaze can cut through the most formidably built emotional walls like they were wisps of cloud. He knows the wonder in them when she looks up at a clear night sky from the back of a beat up pick up truck, the way that they could make him shudder with one searing look of want, the way they can see through any lie even the most talented snake charmer can spin.

He knows her better than he knows himself even after all of this time; body, mind, spirit and soul. Because you don't just forget about a once in a lifetime woman like Brooke Davis. Not after two years of her being the center of his universe.

**_It was more than just a comet because of what it brought to his life: direction, beauty, meaning._**

Two years he'd spent falling in love with the symphony of her voice, with every facet of the woman whose lips it poured from like moonlight into the sky.

Two years he'd spent watching her grow into the woman that she had been destined to become, a woman that would change the world - even if she didn't know it yet.

Two years he'd spent trying (and failing) to be the man that she so desperately wanted him to be. A man that she truly deserved.

Two years of gaining her trust, of building a happily ever after with her, only to let it all go to shit over his own insecurities.

Two years that he has spent the rest of his life attempting to push into the back of his mind because he'd known that he was no good for her.

But it had turned out that not even running away to Afghanistan could take the memories he has of her away. That couldn't even take away the first time he saw her, let alone the lifetime after it. Not the sound of her voice in the dark, not the way that kissing her could make his entire world disappear, not the feel of her heartbeat softly thudding against his cheek as he slept in her arms. Not the way that she'd left, either.

**_But even in his darkest hours, he knew in his heart that someday it would return to him, and his world would be whole again...and his belief in God and love and art would be re-awakened in his heart._**

Conrad's eyes slip shut as he listens to her battle against the two doctors, his hands clenching the side of the bed for a split second. He opens them only when he hears her muffled voice begin to fill with the tears he knows all too well. It's his last memory of her, the sound of her tears, and he'll never forgive himself for it.

He knows that he should walk past her and go back to his life as he's built it.

He should go find Nic. He should be pulling her into an on call room somewhere losing himself in her touch. He should have just taken the day off and convinced her to do the same, lingered in her arms for just a little bit longer.

He should have done everything he wanted to do this morning, because he knows what comes next.

The second that he turns around, nothing will ever be the same in his comfortable life, and he's not ready for that to be just a memory yet.

**_The boy saw the comet and suddenly...his life had meaning._**

_\- - - - _x - - - -

She doesn't know why she's doing this, why Peyton is demanding that they continue with her transfer to Atlanta. She hasn't understood it since they left Cedars Sinai, since her best friend had even demanded it in the first place when they had received her diagnosis.

Brooke had a life in New York, and a good life at that. One with an incredible job that she'd dreamed of for most of her life, a company that she'd raised completely on her own, a penthouse apartment with a view of Central Park to die for and a house in the Hampton's for when it all gets to be a little too stressful. She's created that life for herself without anyone but Peyton. Eight years she's spent creating a legacy, one that shows that she doesn't need man - because heaven knows she'd never allow herself to need one again after being left heart broken by the one that she'd thought she'd marry one day.

At the behest of the invalid that has a penchant for stirring up trouble wherever she went, Randolph Bell had personally flown to New York to talk with the two of them, to present the dream that was his award winning oncologist and surgeon, Dr. Lane Hunter. It hadn't been a surprise that he'd hopped on a jet to court her, having known her father for well over thirty years - but that hadn't been the draw for a man of Bell's stature. She knew that it had been the money he was after, the hundreds of thousands of dollars that Peyton's top tier insurance would shell out to fund her medical care, but he'd spoken so highly of Dr. Lane Hunter that she couldn't help but get her hopes up. Lane had promised them something that no one could - a cure.

But that hadn't convinced her. Not even close.

It had been her boyfriend who had done the final convincing, the brilliant trauma surgeon who had work side by side with Bell at his hospital. It had been her military man in dress blues who had said that Chastain Park and Lane Hunter would be the best possible option for Peyton's success, a hospital where he still had surgical privileges and could monitor everything closely. He'd fly ahead and arrange everything, he promised her. He'd make sure that everything was perfect.

And so they'd made plans. Dr. Bell would remove the tumor with the assistance of Dr. Hunter and together they would begin targeted chemo within Peyton's body without damaging her ovaries and uterus, with Jude closely observing to make sure that everything went according to plan. Peyton would be in a suite that would mirror the best rooms at The Waldorf Astoria and have the best round the clock care that money could buy. Everything had been going off without a hitch.

Right up until the so called phenomenal oncologist had been arrested for fraud and manslaughter.

But Peyton had put her foot down. It didn't matter when Lane Hunter had been arrested, although she had tried desperately to convince her dreamy eyed friend that any other hospital in the country would be better for her treatment. Brooke had been on the phone with a doctor in Switzerland when Peyton had told her she was going to Chastain, whether she liked it or not. They were already in Tree Hill visiting Nathan and Haley, a short helicopter ride away from the hospital. She wasn't flying all the way back to New York just to fly to another country, not when everything had already been prepared.

Peyton walks off the helicopter - no wheelchairs having been another demand of the star patient- as Brooke follows behind her. She makes a comment about how Peyton's so much faster than her that she can't even keep up, but the truth is she always walks a step behind since the blonde had first started having fainting spells. Brooke likes to make sure that she can always catch her if she needs to.

They're met at the door to the hospital by Dr. Bell, who immediately starts to kiss Peyton's ass by offering her help down the stairs. Brooke can't help but smirk, shaking her head. The attention will do her good, she thinks to herself. It certainly can't hurt to give her a little ego boost right before they do another set of scans to see if the tumor has grown

"Hey, stranger."

Brooke turns to the sound of his voice, faced with another doctor - complete with the white coat and all. He's what her mother would have called a tall drink of water, all slicked back dark hair and blue eyes. With his hand outstretched to help her down the stairs in her wedge sandals, he's the kind of handsome that knocks her off her frozen tower for just a second, long enough for her lips to curl into a smile and for her to take his hand. But then again, Jude Silva had already done that when he'd decided to follow her across the country to help her take care of the only family that's ever mattered to her.

"Hey yourself." She murmurs as he helps her down the steps, eyeing Bell warily. "Remind me again why you still think this is the best move?"

"Because I'll be a consulting surgeon on Peyton's case and can step in if you're not happy with how things are going," He replies with a smile as she reaches the bottom step, the two of them following Peyton and Bell dutifully as she slips her arm in his. "And because you'll continue to be able to be the shot caller."

Brooke raises an eyebrow. "The shot caller? I wasn't aware I had a nickname here yet."

"Well you come from Cedars Sinai with quite the reputation, babe. They generally don't get calls from the staff warning them not to piss off someone very often. They know that you're expecting a lot from them." Jude says with a laugh, a soft smile tugging at his lips as his hand slips around the curve of her waist, stopping the two of them as they reach the MRI suite. He tucks a stray curl behind her ear, leaning down and pressing a gentle kiss to her lips. "Why don't we discuss it over coffee? I'm sure the flight was long, to say the least."

She returns the laugh, shrugging ever so slightly. "Me, expecting a _lot_?" Brooke pauses, her gaze locking on his as she reaches up to him and smooths her fingers along his jawline. "Don't be foolish, Jude. I'll be expecting perfection, because that's the whole point of us transferring down to Atlanta. As long as we're clear on that, then the staff will always be on the right foot with me. And I'm just caffeinated enough, thank you."

The stunned expression on his face makes her smile, but she's surprised to see him begin to grin. "God you're beautiful when you're being demanding. Remind me to show you the on call rooms later. I think it'll meet your..._expectations_ just fine."

She smirks, about to respond when she hears Peyton yelling from the MRI intercom.

_"Brooke, quit making out with your boyfriend and get me something to drink. __I'll take a chamomile tea with honey and lemon. I'm sure Jude would just _love_ to organize that for you."_

She can't help but roll her eyes. Peyton knows her too well, knows that she'll stand there waiting for the scans because the tumor's original margins are engraved into Brooke's mind since the last set of them, and it never ceases to amaze her at how much her best friend still wants to protect her. But she also knows the blonde just as well - dating Jude is like winning the lottery for Brooke. Handsome, intelligent, successful and brilliant in his own right - but he's not Peyton's favorite. She has her heart set on a ghost from her past, one that is long gone now.

Brooke sighs, looking at the handsome doctor with a raised eyebrow. She leans her head into the MRI suite, looking at Peyton expectantly. "Don't go anywhere else, okay? No crazy shooters, no car accidents, no psycho stalkers. You keep your bony ass right in that machine."

_"Would you just shut up and go get coffee with your cute doctor?"_

Brooke laughs, shaking her head as she closes the door to the suite and reluctantly caves to Jude. "One coffee, and it's only because Peyton's making me."

"Oh, I'm sure that's all it's about. It's not the whole cute doctor thing at all, right?"

"Says the man calling me beautiful."

"So obviously we're both right, because you're absolutely gorgeous and I do happen to be a pretty cute doctor."

"And modest too, I see."

"You can't be modest with a woman who's expecting perfection, now can you?"

His volleys are quick and they make Brooke smile, a giggle even escaping her lips when he kisses her again. He's practically pulling her down the hallway as he murmurs sweet nothing into her ear about how much he's missed her and how much he can't wait to get her alone later tonight, even pulling her chair out and getting her a seat before dashing over to get her coffee.

When she'd met him at a charity gala for his hospital's pediatric cancer wing, Jude had pursued her for nearly three months before she'd let him take her out, and she had just meant for it to be a meaningless fling. But he'd won her over, and six months later he's still so unbelievably perfect that she's constantly wondering if someone made him in a lab somewhere just for her. He's charming and dreamy and everything that she's ever wanted in life, complete with being her calm before the storm that's about to ensue. In that moment she's grateful that she has something else to focus on other than Peyton's scans. She knows him, and she likes what she knows.

She knows that he had served in the Marines for two tours in Afghanistan, that he specializes in trauma surgery at Cedars Sinai, that he has two sisters that he hasn't seen in nearly six years and that his job is pretty much his life. She knows that he's never been married and doesn't have any children - but likes kids enough to joke about what their future children will be like with her stubborn will and his ferocious strength.

She knows that he respects her beyond belief, that he supports her unconditionally when it comes to her work. She knows that he looks unbelievably dashing in a tuxedo when he's been on her arm at her many social engagements, and she knows the measurements for said tuxedo because he's her fit model for her new line. She knows the way that his hands feel when they sneak up on her at her drawing desk and massage her neck, the way that he dotes on her when she least expects it and when she needs it most.

She knows that darkness lingers deep inside of him beneath the white coat and the commendations. She knows that he wakes up from nightmares of combat all too often, terrible memories that she kisses away in the twilight hours when his need for her becomes insatiable. She knows that sometimes he drowns his memories in Irish whiskey and the taste of her lips because its all that can keep the demons of war at bay - and she knows that sometimes going back to Afghanistan is all that he can think about because there's no rush as strong as fighting for his country while he's doing what he loves.

She knows his smile, his bright blue eyes, the way it makes her feel so safe when she buries her face in the crook of his neck when she's scared. She knows he loves her enough to jet across the country for her to a place where he didn't leave on the best terms, even when she begs him not to. She loves the unbelievable tolerance he has with her need to push him away when he gets too close, the patience he has with her being unable to tell him that she loves him. She knows him, faults and all, and he knows her too. It's why they work.

"Where did you disappear to?"

Jude comes up from behind her, kissing her cheek as he sets her coffee down. She brings it to her lips and sighs in satisfaction. Vanilla latte with skim milk, extra shot of espresso and a dollop of whipped cream on top. The man knows her coffee order to a t, and she realizes then that he knows her to the letter as well - and that she thinks she might even love him for it.

Brooke smiles over at him, shrugging as she sinks back into her chair. "Somewhere warm where I can lay on a white sand beach all day without a care in the world." She says dreamily.

"Oh, and am I in this fantasy of yours?" He replies, tugging her chair close to his like she's sixteen again, sending her laughing once more as it screeches noisily against the while tile. "And more importantly, are you naked in this fantasy? Because we could _definitely _make that happen right now, aside from the whole beach thing. Or the carefree thing. But the naked thing? Totally doable."

Brooke knows she wants to say it as he distracts her from her hellish day, when his hand settles on hers like it's just any other day in New York and they're not about to get news that could change everything forever. After all it keeps nagging in the back of her mind. It's on the tip of her tongue, those three little words dancing right there when she sees a sparkle out of the corner of her eye on one of the nurse's hands.

To the naked eye, it would just be another ring, a priceless trinket to compliment. It's a rare gem, a beautiful princess cut ruby set in white gold with delicate custom engraving. To everyone else in the room, it's just a piece of jewelry to compliment in passing, to be jealous of. But to Brooke, it's the spark that ignites the flames of a memory put out so long ago that she thought they'd grown cold, a fire that reaches an inferno when she sees the blonde nurse wearing it walk past them. Her mind races as Jude's pager goes off, trying to process what she's just seen.

"Peyton's scans are back." Jude says as he stands, offering his hand out to Brooke to help her out of her seat. He's a true gentleman, even in hospital scrubs, and she takes his hand without a fuss. She's too busy wondering why in the hell a nurse in Atlanta would have a ring that belonged to someone who was four hundred miles away, rationalizing that it must be stolen.

Brooke can barely hear Jude, swallowing her emotions as she stands up, taking his hand and walking without so much as a word. Her thoughts turn to the gem she's just seen, her memories playing like a black and white movie in her head.

_"My mom gave this to me, right before she died. __She said, give it to the love of your life. And I am."_

_"Conrad...what are you doing?"  
_

_"Marry me, Davis. Marry me, and let me spend the rest of my life wondering how in the hell I got so lucky to be loved by you."_

_**He's just this lost little boy, and then he sees the comet and suddenly...his life has meaning, and then he waits his whole life for the comet to return to him.**_

There's no Jude, escorting her to the VIP suites. There's no concierge doctor waiting at the doors of the room, no Dr. Bell meeting them at the entryway with a folder full of scans. She doesn't see him hand the scans to Jude, who looks through them dutifully. She doesn't see his eyes slip shut in disappointment or notice the way that he looks at her with the weight of the world on his shoulders. There is nothing but her past surrounding her, clouding her mind as her fists clench at her sides. A tight smile is forced to her lips as she thanks everything above and below that the door is shut. The last thing she needs is Peyton seeing her this upset. It would only send her into a frenzy. After all, it's only a ring, a ring that he could've easily pawned or sold or done whatever the hell he felt like doing with it.

"Brooke...we should talk before we go inside." Jude murmurs, keeping the file to his chest hesitantly.

Her world snaps back into focus as she looks up at him with furrowed brows. She doesn't take kindly to having information kept from her, a fact made clear when she snatches Peyton's scans right out of his hand without a word. The tumor's grown, she knows it from the second she looks at Jude's face, but she doesn't know how much until she looks down.

She doesn't need them to tell her how bad it is because she's _knows_ how bad it is. She knows where the margins are supposed to be, how the growth as constritcted even further around Peyton's uterus and ovaries. Looking at scans non-stop for the last two months has given Brooke a crash course in MRI scans - something she never wanted to possess in her lifetime.

Her heart is laid bare right there in the hallway, pumping through the cracks that begin to appear in her strong appearance. But she doesn't falter. Not yet, at least. Instead Brooke pulls her stare from the scans and up to the doctors before her. "So the surgery's more complicated. So what? We came here for the best. I want the _best_." She says so matter of fact that there can't possibly be another option.

The look on Jude's face tells her otherwise. "If they get in there, Brooke...there's no possible way that they can't do a hysterectomy. It's the only way that they can get a clear look on how deep this thing goes, whether it's invaded other organs. They have to do it or Peyton's not going to beat this."

_No_. There is no possible way that she's going to destroy Peyton's future. That's the whole point of this treatment, so that Peyton can _have_ a future - and a future without kids? It's not a future. Not for her, at least.

"No." Brooke says simply, shaking her head. "No. You are _not_ doing a hysterectomy on her. You have to find another way."

Bell interjects, gesturing to the scans. "Miss Davis, my surgical plan has just had a wrecking ball through it. Peyton's tumor has nearly doubled in size in the last two weeks and if we don't get all of it out, it could easily continue to spread throughout her body. If Peyton wants a future-"

"Don't you _dare_." Brooke seethes. "Don't you _dare_ pretend like this is a _future_ for her! Do you know what Peyton had dreamed of her entire life? A child! A family! A life where she gets to be the mom that _her_ mom couldn't be because she died when we were kids."

Jude places a hand on her arm to comfort her and she shirks him off immediately, refusing to accept that this is what it's come to.

"You are not doing a hysterectomy, that's not happening. Peyton wants children, she wants a future and that's what we came here for so don't tell me that you can't do it! You have to! This cannot be the only option!"

She's yelling now, yelling at the top of her lungs. Every ounce of force that she has in her small frame is spilling out of her as the door to Peyton's room opens, releasing a clearly startled nurse. Brooke's about to start cussing, to let the Southern belle she's been raised to be take a backseat and to let the backhanding loosely composed cheerleader out to play with the two useless men standing before her, and the her whole world stops when she looks through the opening to the room.

Brooke's eyes meet his for just a split second and the stitches holding her fragile heart together are shredded.

_**He has faith that it will, even though science and his intellect tells him that it won't. His heart still believes.**_

She knows those eyes, the liquid amber gaze making her feel inherently weak. She knows the way that they're almost as mercurial as his moods, that they turn the color of dark chocolate when his temper is volatile and as warm as liquid honey when he's bursting with happiness. She knows the way that they can glide around someone's frame as if he's memorizing each and every curve, the look in his eyes when he'd savored the sensation of his skin on hers and the pain in them when she'd refuse to tell him what he wanted to hear.

She knows his calloused and sure hands, the ones that grasp the edge of Peyton's hospital so tight that he may snap it in half. She knows the way it feels to surrender to the feeling of his fingertips on her, the force that it could carry when slamming into a wall or the face of an unlucky bar patron. She knows the way they would cup her cheeks when begging for forgiveness, knows the sound of his fist banging against the door of an apartment he so desperately wants to get into. She knows the scars on his knuckles and the way that one touch of them could leave her breathless, how the same hands capable of dismantling someone's face could be so passionate and gentle when he'd made love to her through all hours of the night.

She knows the way his voice sounds like his Tennessee roots and East Coast charm mixed into one perfect combination, that he sings off key at the top of his lungs whenever Creedance Clearwater Revival comes on the radio. She knows the way his stubble nuzzles against the soft skin of her neck just right when he leans in to whisper in her ear at a crowded bar, that he prefers not to talk and to show what he's feeling with his actions. She knows his soft murmur, his tortured screams, his bitter sarcasm, his loving adorations. She knows that he can talk himself out of just about anything, that he could charm a nun out of her habit if his life depended on it.

She knows his sinewy frame, every rippling muscle carefully chiseled through brutal workouts that make her daily three mile run look like child's play, She knows the broad expanse of his shoulders, the way that her hands always seemed to find there way there when he had explored her body as if they had all the time in the world - a habit which left him with scratches so deep from her climaxes that one had scarred along the curve of his left shoulder blade, a scar that he joked he'd have her name tattooed on one day. She knows the way he trembles when she runs her fingers down the back of his neck, the way his grip would tighten on her whenever he felt possessive and jealous in public. She knows the indestructible nature of his body and the vulnerability of his soul, the way that his whole body could tell her if he's carrying a weight that she can't shoulder for him.

She knows the way his cologne hangs in the air for hours after he's left the room, that he always manages to smell like fresh cut pine trees and heat lightning, that his scent would linger on the button up's that she had loved to sleep in. She knows that his lips taste like bourbon, lips that practically sizzled against her skin when he'd sleepily kiss her bare shoulder and tell her that he loved her. She knows the crooked smile that lingers on them when he's truly entranced, the grimace of resentment that tugs when someone brings up his father, the sneer of disapproval when he doesn't get his way.

She knows everything a lover can know about the object of their affection, because two years is enough time to learn every single nuance of someone's soul.

_**It's beautiful...and heartbreaking. **__**It's about love in its purest form.**_

In that moment as she looks at him for the first time in eight years, she is twenty one again and leaving his mother's ring on his nightstand, walking away from him for the very last time. Her world begins and ends with Conrad Hawkins once more, and she suddenly finds it impossible to breathe. Heartache washes through her as the levees break in her chest, rushing to meet the rage bubbling inside of her like a tidal wave.

"...they have to do the hysterectomy, Brooke. If Peyton wants a shot at actually beating this, we need to get aggressive."

Jude's earnest request brings her gaze back to him. Her heart is ripping apart in her chest, knowing now that _this_ is why Peyton brought them here. It's not about the treatment or about her getting better. It's about dragging Brooke back to ghosts of relationships that had died almost eight years prior, and she's absolutely furious that Peyton would put her in this position.

But she doesn't let her anger get the better of her, not at Peyton and not at Conrad. He will not make her fall apart, not with Jude standing beside her and Peyton within earshot. He does _not_ get to have that effect on her. Not anymore.

Brooke's eyes turn up to Jude's face, nodding in defeat. What other option do they have? She can't allow Peyton to die, not after everything that she's been through in her life. Her blonde best friend deserves to make it to her thirtieth birthday and beyond.

"The two of you need to talk with the patient, and then we'll go from there. I want to get in with this thing as soon as possible." Bell murmurs before walking away.

But Brooke's not listening. She's too busy thinking about what Peyton's move means, that this is her accepting her fate. Peyton _knows_ she's going to die, and she's trying to play God with Brooke's life because she knows that she won't be around to face the repercussions. It's selfish as hell and Brooke can't even be mad at her.

"Did I ever tell you that Peyton was shot when we were seventeen?"

Her voice is quiet as Jude wraps his arms around her, small as she tries to comprehend the situation. "There was an active shooter in our high school, and she protected me. She shoved me out of the way when he fired on us." Brooke looks up at Jude, her eyes filling with tears as one of his hands cups her cheek. She cringes at her memories, shaking her head "She almost _died_ because of me. And now she really _could_ die, and I'm helpless. I can't fix her, I can't do anything for her, and I just..."

"I will do everything I possibly can." Jude assures her, turning her toward him and placing his other hand on her arm. "I promise you, Brooke. She will not go down without us doing _everything_ we can to save her. I requested the best residents on the case with me, and if we have anything to say about it Peyton will die in a rocking chair at the ripe old age of a hundred and five listening to The Cure for the eight millionth time. You just need to trust me."

She doesn't speak for a moment, her eyes drifting back over to the man examining Peyton once more. Love, hatred, anger, sympathy, passion; she has all of them for him. Or at least, for the boy who she'd left so long ago. Age has been kind to him, she notes - too kind. "Conrad Hawkins _is_ the best resident?" Brooke asks quietly.

Jude nods before pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, wrapping his arms around her. "Without a shadow of a doubt. Conrad and I served together in Afghanistan, he's been here since we got back. He's an incredible doctor, very attentive..."

Brooke drifts away from him in her mind as she buries her face in her boyfriend's chest, trying to keep the sobs that are beginning to grow in her chest at bay. She should have forced Peyton to pick a different hospital. She should have put her foot down and flown them to Los Angeles, to Geneva, to Seattle.

She should have told Jude that she loved him the second that he'd said it. She should be in an on call room somewhere repeating it over and over again as he'd make love to her. She shouldn't have been so stubborn and just let herself love him, because she knows what comes next.

The second that she goes into that room, nothing will ever be the same in her comfortable life, because that's what Conrad does to her life. He is the hurricane and she is the beautiful beach house that it careens into the ocean.

He is the unstoppable force that almost destroyed all those years ago, and now she just wants to go back to never knowing where he had wound up.

_**It's an epic love story.**_


	2. Break Me Like A Promise

Title: The Boy Saw A Comet  
Author: heythereanna (Anna)  
Pairings: Conrad Hawkins/Brooke Davis  
Rating: MATURE; Language, Adult Content  
Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing, even though I wish I could take Mark Schwahn's position and remake seasons four through nine of One Tree Hill.  
Author's Note: Hey all! Thank you so much for your awesome reviews and follows, I'm really having fun writing this story. I hope this chapter finds you all safe and healthy during this troubled times, enjoy!  
Playlist: _Palace, _Cam (cover of the Sam Smith original). _Mixed Drinks About Feelings, _Eric Church. _Once_, Maren Morris.

_\- - - - _x - - - -

She hasn't aged a day.

It's the only thing that goes through Conrad's mind as he stands there, frozen in shock. His eyes are glued to her as she sinks into Jude's embrace. Her eyes are closed, her face buried in his chest, her arms wrapping around his waist. Conrad feels his chest tighten as Jude presses a kiss to the side of her head, his hands already clenching the side of the bed so hard it might give way beneath his grasp. _That's not where she needs it_, he thinks to himself, _kiss her forehead__ you'll make her feel safe again_. His jaw fuses shut as the words die on his tongue and the flames that scorches them to ashes burn his sealed shut lips as he tries not to scream, because Jude's doing the whole perfect boyfriend that walked straight out a romantic comedy, white lab coat and all. But Conrad takes solace in the fact that he will _never_ know Brooke Davis the way that he does. Never.

"Why Conrad, you look like you've seen a ghost. Care to share with the class?"

Peyton finally pipes up from the bed, her hands folded in her lap. She's as cool as a cucumber while she observes the three of them, and when he looks at her in confusion, it hits him. She knows. She knows _exactly_ who he is and what he had once been to the woman standing just outside the door. Of course she does. He'd heard Brooke talk about her at length - but at that time, none of it was good. Something about a high school boyfriend who she'd caught sleeping around, which led her to her spending the next two years making sure that she could get the hell out of her hometown and away from them.

He's not sure if he should thank her or cuss her out for getting Brooke to run away to New York. Thank her for bringing his first real love into his life; cuss her out for bringing him the worst heartbreak he's ever felt to this day. Maybe he should do both.

"So, _you're_ the famous Peyton." Conrad remarks with a smirk, shaking his head. From the stories Brooke had told him, she'd been a man stealing whore, a destroyer of worlds and a breaker of hearts - _not_ someone that she would want to fly around the country for medical treatment. "Pretty different from the stories I was told, but that was also eight years ago."

She snorts, rolling her eyes. "Oh lord, freshman year of college? I can only imagine." Peyton grimaces, the memories not too fond. "I was in California with her first love by then - I'm sure you've heard that story. The one where I stole her boyfriend and then dated him for the next six years. _Which_ by the way, happened two years before we even graduated high school _and _she slept with my ex-boyfriend while he and I were dating, so I'm not completely awful. Just selfish, insecure, neurotic and _real_ goddamn stupid when it comes to men."

Conrad can't help the laugh that rises, folding his arms across his chest. Small towns always led to the best love triangles, or at least that's what he'd been told by...well, by Brooke. "Yeah, something' like that. Maybe a little bit more colorful language, but that's the gist of it."

Her gaze shifts, that omniscient look back in her eyes. Peyton is all seeing, all knowing, and apparently hell bent on making him squirm. "And you two were up in New York." She muses, tucking a stray curl behind her ear as she gauges his reaction. When he doesn't, she presses on. "I heard the stories when I'd come home about some third year pre-med student that she'd fallen head over heels for when she was at Parsons, you two...you were quite the story back in Tree Hill. Something about a bet over a game of pool?"

He shifts uncomfortably, awkwardly even, as his mind begins to play a slideshow of his relationship with Brooke. He can hear her voice in his head like he had just been there a moment before, that wild look in her eyes when he'd come upon her at a shit hole in the wall in Queens.

_"Are you two gonna ever finish up? We're trying to get a game before we die of old age, if that's alright with you two."_

_He looks up from his pool cue, his muscular frame poised over the table. He's about five beers in, so for a second he thinks he's dreaming her up. __His eyes hit her skin tight faded jeans first, slowly crawling up the generous curves of her body that are hidden beneath her tied up white t-shirt, past the turquoise and gold necklace that hangs over the fabric, up along the creamy white skin of her jawline until he's staring into her eyes. Honey, that's what they remind him of, the honey that he puts in his green tea every morning before he goes to class, and he's in completely awe of her. Her dark brown waves have been pulled back into a ponytail, the soft tendrils that frame her face not blocking the hazel gaze filled with either intrigue or irritation - he's too disarmed from the dazzlingly cocky smile on her glossed lips. __He would have told any other girl to fuck off, that he'd find her later to put her in her place. But she's not some bar fly, not some med school groupie, not even close. _

_She's the most beautiful woman he's ever seen in his life, bar none, and there's no way that he's going to fuck up a chance to get behind her with a pool cue._

_He's wearing a heavy smirk as he rises from his shot, his swagger showing as he leans against the table. __"Tell you what, Pretty Girl." He says with a laugh, holding his arms out to his sides as he welcomes her challenge with confidence. "You beat me, the table all yours."_

_Her eyes are wildfire as she leans down, her palms resting on the table. The brunette kinks an eyebrow in what looks to be amusement, laughing ever so gently. The sound is raspy as she smirks, and it sends an unforgettable chill up his spine. "And if I lose?" She bats her long dark eyelashes so innocently, as if she's actually entertaining that it might happen. Her words have just a twinge of a Southern accent and it's hotter than hell. A Tennessee boy meets a Southern belle in a bar - it sounds like the beginning of a love story, but lord knows he doesn't do love._

_He grins from ear to ear, leaning down just enough to get to her level. His ego surges through him as his palms splay out, his eyes ravaging her frame as he imagines his hands sliding along that creamy porcelain skin - and he'd be lying if he said he didn't feel the heat shoot through him from just the thought of her in his bed. His gaze finally makes its way back up to her sensual lips, his tongue skating along his bottom lip as he wonders what she tastes like. "I get to take you home."_

_The offer makes her laugh, the husky giggle making his faded jeans tighten mercilessly. She's got him ready and waiting, and he hasn't even touched her yet. **Fuck** she's trouble, and he knows it from the second she starts to walk around the table to him. _

_He turns to her when she gets as close as possible, his free hand instinctively reaching out to her hip. She tilts her head as he slides a finger into her belt loop out of what somehow feels like habit. Her hand slides over his and around the stick, her nails scraping his skin just enough to make him growl wordlessly in satisfaction. She leans against him generously, her Patron scented breath warming his jawline as her chest presses to his. He can feel every inch of her through the thin t-shirt she's wearing and he nearly lifts her onto the table and strips her down right then and there._

_She takes the pool stick from his hand and leaving him hanging in the wind, the same throaty laugh that makes him groan internally. She grins mischievously as she sashays to the other side of the table, his eyes following the movement of her hips hungrily. Oh, she's **definitely **going to be trouble for him._

_"Throw in my bar bill and you're on, Broody."_

He nods, trying to push his memories for his mind. She'd won the first game, he'd won the second, and they were too busy making out in a back booth of the bar to finish the third. The rest is history, their beautifully unfinished history that he needs to stay that way - but Peyton's sole goal seems to dredge it up from the depths of their past. And for what, her own amusement? "Maybe I should be asking _you_ to share, since you're the one pulling the strings." Conrad deadpans as he checks her IV bag, busying himself.

The blonde smirks, shrugging slightly. "Who, me? _No_, not the feeble cancer patient with a tumor the size of a grapefruit bouncing around her uterus. I couldn't _possibly_ be in charge of this little rodeo that I've gotten roped into." She mocks in a tone that he can only describe as manipulative - but maybe that's just because he's furious. "I couldn't have _possibly_ tracked you down. Haven't you heard? I don't have the time to waste. I'm dying, after all."

"B-" Conrad starts, but her name dies on his tongue as he looks at her again. Her eyes are closed, those liquid gold orbs of light that he had once swore up and down could fuck him up more than any drink or drug or cure that could be prescribed. His gaze turns to his patient once more, heavy with insistence. "_She_ wouldn't get ten feet of this hospital if she had known that I worked here, let _alone_ that I would be the resident on your case. Not to mention, you could've gone _anywhere. _Los Angeles, Dallas, Seattle, hell even Switzerland. And you decide come to Chastain, even after the hell storm we've just gone through?"

Peyton raises an eyebrow, tilting her head just enough to feign ignorance. "Doctor Bell is a family friend of Brooke's father. They golf together whenever Ted touches down in Atlanta." She says matter of fact, but her eyes tell him different. "_He_ was the one who approached us about Chastain after Ted happened to mention to him that his daughter's best friend had been diagnosed with the mother of all ovarian tumors, with that hack of an oncologist in tow - and from what I heard from Brooke's little temper tantrum, she was just selling me a pipe dream about keeping everything that makes me a woman. And Jude, in case you're wondering how _that_ happened, met her at some hoity-toity fundraiser for Cedars Sinai nine months ago; they started dating three months later. And I'm sure with your incredible medical talents, you can move past your ego and see in my chart that my diagnosis..."

"Came three weeks ago." He sighs out with frustration. "But that still doesn't explain why you're _here_."

Her gaze remains fixated on his, a small but confident smile gracing her lips. "Randolph mentioned some brilliant resident that had been a protege of Lane's before he'd changed to internal medicine, some hot shot two tour Marine with more talent than decorum who'd come to them straight out of the top of Emory's medical school, well..." Peyton confesses, shrugging once more. "It didn't take much to put two and two together."

Brooke had been right eight years ago. Peyton Sawyer _is_ a meddling pain in the ass. But she's also his patient, so screaming at her isn't exactly an option. Conrad's eyes narrow as he calmly resumes his examination, trying not to draw too much attention from the figures in the hallway. "I'm dating someone, Peyton. I'm happy. I'm happy with her, and she's _clearly_ happy with him...so why would you do this? Regardless of my situation...don't you want her to be happy with a good guy? Because Jude _is_. He's a good man"

"There's no way in hell that you're this dumb, but if it is you should _not_ be a doctor." She sighs out with a laugh. Peyton moves her hands as he goes back to feeling through her abdomen, the tumor hard beneath his hands. She winces, a grimace of agony appearing on her lips "Alright, that hurts." Peyton gasps out as she shudders into the bed.

He pulls his hands away from her body, understanding the outrage in the hall. He knows the scans aren't showing her current margins, his brow furrowing ever so slightly at the severity of his realization. Conrad stays beside her, looking down at her for some sort of explanation. "Why, Peyton. Why bring her here, when we're both happy with other people? Why do this?"

"What can I say, prolonged death has brought out my bitchy side." Peyton says with a laugh, but there's something different this time. Tears are forming in her eyes as she bites down on her lower lip, wringing her hands. She's vulnerable, and for the first time...he can see how afraid she is. She finally inhales, wiping furiously at her tears before she looks up at him with glassy brown eyes. "You know what she says about love, right?"

He doesn't move a muscle, looking down at her in disbelief. He can hear her say it before he speaks, his lips turning into a semblance of a smile. "You can't choose who you love?" Conrad offers, his voice almost nostalgic.

Peyton shakes her head gingerly, relaxing into the bed. She smiles, soft and serene, as she takes his hand in hers and gives it a squeeze. "Close, but not quite." She murmurs, and he can tell that her energy is beginning to give way. Her voice is breathy barely above a whisper, and her words fall from her lips like a gentle rain.

"People that are meant to be together always find their way in the end."

And right then, when he's completely lost for words, the door opens.

_\- - - - _x - - - -

"We can go in now, baby."

Brooke hovers there for a moment, standing just a few feet from the doorway. She's been quiet, too quiet, and she knows that Jude is picking up on it. Silence is not her strong suit and to linger in it is a dead giveaway. She's staring at a blank wall as she tries to gather her thoughts, tries to sort them into the simple boxes that her life has become. Peyton, work, and Jude. That had been her life before this moment. Cut and dry, plain and simple, nowhere for thoughts of long lost love and heartache to go. And she likes it that way. Actually, she _loves_ it that way. Despite the chaos that her life carries, it's become calm, safe, so perfectly predictable. She doesn't want to blow it up. She doesn't want a man that she had nearly lost herself for to be the thing that destroys her and Jude. She knows she should tell him, that she should spill her guts as her gaze shifts up to his bright sterling blue eyes.

And yet, she doesn't.

"I need...I need a few minutes with her." Brooke says softly, resting her hands on her boyfriend's toned biceps. She's lying through her teeth because Peyton isn't the one she needs to be alone with, but she knows she's just trying to spare him from her past. "I just...it needs to be just us for a second. No decisions, no scans, no medical jargon. Just..."

Jude nods, an understand smile appearing on his lips. "I know. Just the two of ou. It's okay, really. I'll go get Peyton's tea." He murmurs.

He leans forward, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead, and she savors it more than he could ever know. This is her serenity prayer, her last moment before she faces the harbinger of her own special heartache. Jude is the harbor to the storm she's about to sail into and for that moment, she clings to him.

"You know that I..." He trails off as he bows his head, resting her forehead against hers. He's about to say those three little words again, and she knows she can't let him.

Her fingers reach up, pressing ever so gently to his lips to quiet him. "I do, Jude. I know." Brooke whispers, nodding as her brow creases. It feels like a goodbye, this little safe haven, but not to him. To life as she knows it. She leans in slowly, her lips pressing to his in a healing kiss. Her hands cup his cheeks, drawing him in as close as she can, and before he can say another word she turns and moves into the room.

It's a death march as she shuts the door behind her, inhaling deeply with a silent prayer for strength. Her steps are slow, cautious at best, but she puts on a brave face for Peyton - despite the fact that she'll know _immediately_ that something's wrong, because that's what being friends for twenty years does. Peyton is a piece of her. But there are some things that not even she knows.

Peyton meets her gaze warily, her forlorn features pulling into a smile. "I thought I was the one who's dying. You look like shit, B. Davis." She says with her signature smirk. Her surge of energy from the flight has worn off and the exhaustion has kicked in at full force, and from the pain in the blonde's eyes, she knows he's already examined the tumor that's grown further north.

Brooke watches as he visibly tenses, every sinewy inch of his body seeming to freeze in place. She smiles weakly, leaning against the door frame. "Yeah, well we can't all be smoke shows like you. Apparently that's just a cancer thing." She quips back.

Her eyes skate back to him, clearly still busying himself with Peyton's examination. He doesn't turn, doesn't even get close to glancing in her direction. His strong jaw is ground tight as he keeps moving along as if she's not there, finally beginning to speak - but of course, not anywhere near directed at her. "I should take you down to the emergency room to give some of my interns a less in pain management, Peyton." He says with a laugh of his own, leaning back and checking on her vitals. "How've you been keeping it at bay in New York?"

Peyton grins from ear to ear, shrugging. "I prefer to go a little bit more of an..._herbal_ route with my pain relief. But it's not exactly easy to transfer my stash over state lines, according to the pilot. Buzzkill." She scrunches her nose at Brooke and sticks out her tongue for good measure, and even the brunette is laughing now. The sigh that follows is enough to let her know that she truly _is_ in pain. She's just putting on a brave face.

But as Peyton looks between the two of them, Brooke knows it's meant to disarm her for whatever's about to come out of her mouth. "Now, since I'm all set...Brooke, are you actually going to introduce yourself to my doctor?"

Her hazel eyes narrow just enough to let Peyton know that she's touched a soft spot, a painful nerve ending hidden beneath her skin that she's praying won't flare up again. She may be peroxide blonde, but she's anything but dumb. "I think you and I both know that we don't need any introductions, P. Sawyer. Since you've orchestrated this complete shit show, which I will most _certainly _be reaming you out for later in life." Brooke snaps.

"Don't you know you aren't supposed to be bitchy to cancer patients? It's awful karma."

"I think it's pretty awful karma to pull a stunt like this when I'm not even allowed to get mad at you."

"Yeah, the cancer card works pretty great for situations like this."

"Fuck you, Peyton."

"That's _enough_."

Brooke's silenced by his firm assessment, breathless as he finally turns around to look at her. She gulps back every emotion that runs through her when her eyes meet his. Conrad Hawkins stands before her in all his glory, and it looks like he hasn't aged a day - even if he does look like he might tear her head off at any moment. It only lasts a few seconds, their eyes locking on one another, and he steals every breath she'll ever have just with one stern acknowledgement of her presence. Jesus _fuck_, she's screwed.

He sighs in frustration, turning back to Peyton with a smirk and a shake of the head. "It's nice to officially meet you, Peyton. Should've happened a long time ago." He looks at her again, his cognac stare stern at best. "Maybe next time, give me a heads up before you drop a bomb on me, just to give me a little bit of chance." He finishes, taking her hand in his and squeezing it ever so gently.

Peyton's enthralled by him, it's clear by the awestruck smile that graces her lips. She breaks her ogling to look back over at Brooke, who feels like she may come unhinged at any moment. But her best friend doesn't give a damn with her defiant grin and her quick volleys. "You know, I can see why you call him Broody. He's cuter than Jude _and_ he's damn near James Bond level charming. You certainly downgraded."

"Oh for _fuck's_ sake Peyton, you have got to to be shitting m-"

She's getting dragged out of the hospital room by Conrad before she can continue hurling her insults, the strength of his hands all the more frustrating as he keeps one firmly grasping her arm and the other painfully wrapped around her hip. Conrad's livid, the vein in his neck bulging a little more than she remembers as he practically bum rushes her down the hallway, and she's steaming the entire way down. Her heads on a swivel for Jude as he throws open a nearby office and practically throws her inside, the door slamming behind them forcefully.

"Are you out of your goddamn mind?!" She snarls as she yanks her hand out of his grasp, rubbing at the now reddened skin. "Get your hands off of me, Conrad!"

She's expecting him to round on her like some sort of animal, to chastise her for speaking to Peyton the way that she did. She's waiting for him to blame her for all of this as she crosses her arms across her chest, guarding herself. She's anticipating fire and brimstone and the Conrad that she knows, the one with a hair trigger temper who likes to start fights just because someone had _looked_ at him - or her - the wrong way. But he doesn't say a word. Conrad just stands there, his eyes latched on her. The silence is deafening as he keeps himself a solid five feet from her. The way he's looking at her is anything but anger. What she's seeing is a sight to behold, one so rare that she can hardly believe her eyes.

Conrad Hawkins, _vulnerable_.

"Of all the gin joins in all the towns, in all the world..." He sighs, shaking his head. He looks up at her again, the pained expression in his face nearly breaking her heart right then and there. "And she walks into _mine_."

She rolls her eyes, keeping her arms firmly crossed as she glares at him. It's her movie. Well to be honest, it's _their_ movie. On their first actual date, the one that came _after_ they'd nearly fucked in the back of a dingy bar in Queens when she'd kicked his ass in pool, he'd taken her to an old retro theater in the Village to see _Casablanca. _She'd found it endearing, since he'd had no idea that her first ideas of love were from the black and white movies that her housekeeper would turn on after she'd thought that Brooke had fallen asleep - and even more so after she'd found out that he'd tracked down her roommates to interrogate them about a date that would impress her.

_"Did you like the movie?" _

_The November air whips around them as they walk through Manhattan. Her hands are shoved in her jacket pockets as they walk together, the frigid temperature bringing a chill to her body. But even with the bitter cold weather, even with the snow that's starting to fall, the way that he's looking at her brings a warmth to her chest. Conrad looks earnest, endearing, sweet even as he looks over at her with a small smile. _

_Brooke nods as they stop in the street, looking up at him with a grin of her own. "How could anybody not? It's so timeless." She says softly, shrugging ever so slightly. "It's the end of the world as they know it, and all he wants to do is just be with her. But somehow...he knows he can't be selfish with her. He has to let her go for the greater good, and he's just..."_

_"Selfless." Conrad finishes, looking down at her. There's something in his gaze, something she can't quite put her finger on, as he reaches out and brushes away a snowflake from her dark brown waves. It as if he's the first person that's ever looked at her, his eyes glimmering with wonder, and it takes her breath away. "My mom used to love movies like that, the ones that were all about the pain of love. Gone With The Wind, West Side Story, Camille. She'd watch them constantly." He says quietly, and without even realizing it her hand is threading through his. _

_"Every girl wants that. Somebody to love them so much that they're willing to sacrifice their happiness to make sure they're safe." Her voice is somber, honest, so unlike the woman that she's portraying herself to be. She snaps back into her normal self without even realizing it, shaking off the thoughts of the past. __"So how do you go from growing up on Clark Gable and Natalie wood...to picking up girls in shitty bars with bets you'll never win because your pool game is absolutely hopeless?" She kinks an eyebrow as she speaks, her interest peaked._

_He laughs, his voice deep and soft, and his fingertips tighten around hers ever so slightly. "That would be the 'my dad's a raging asshole' card. How about you?"_

_"Oh, I'm a proud card carrying member of that club, too." Brooke says with a bitter laugh of her own, and her gaze drops to the pavement. "My mom, too. She was more concerned with her social schedule than actually being a mother, so I get a double excuse when it comes to being a whore who lets strangers feel her up in bars."_

_His fingertips slip beneath her chin, tilting her face up to look at his. She's breathless from the heat in his eyes, the intentions that are so clearly written across his features. He looks angry, disappointed even, but his thumb strokes the skin beneath it ever so gently. "Don't ever call yourself a whore again." Conrad's hand drops hers, sliding up her arm and to her cheek. He holds her there, forcing her to look into his gaze head on. His hands slide to cradle the base of her skull and her lips part expectantly as they entangle into her hair. "You...are **anything **but that, Pretty Girl."_

_"Making out with me in a bar in Queens does not qualify you to make a judgement on who I am, even if it's in my favor." Brooke quietly snaps, her voice barely above a whisper. She's completely disarmed, struggling to get her walls up fast enough to keep him out. "You don't know me."_

_But he's too fast, his lips colliding with hers so powerfully that it shreds all thoughts from her mind. Her hands are up and tugging him further into the kiss before she can stop herself. It's hungry and jagged and borderline painful as her hands grasp his collar, and her lips are bruised when he finally comes up for air. He's smirking as he shakes his head, looking down at her in a way that no one's ever looked at her before. He looks like a man lost in the desert that's found an oasis, like she's saving him, and it scares the shit out of her._

_"I think I do know you, Brooke. And I think it scares you as much as it scares me." Conrad murmurs, his hands still holding her close. "In a city of eight million people, you happen to walk into my favorite place and knock me down a peg. Parsons is all the way in Manhattan, and you wind up an hour subway ride away in Queens. That doesn't happen, ever, and somehow...here we are. That has to count for something. It's like what Rick says..." __His brown eyes search hers, and she doesn't know what for. But he seems to find it when his lips widen into a grin, his forehead resting against hers. "O__f all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine_..._"_

From that fateful kiss and on, he had been her Rick and she had been his Ilsa, so much so that when he would murmur quotes from the movie whenever he'd pissed her off. He'd look at her with that charming half moon grin he always pulled out of his bag of tricks when he'd mess up, kiss her cheek and murmur the quote before telling her about the first time he'd laid eyes on her, down to the color of the necklace she'd been wearing. She always had would wind up caving, unable to resist him, but when it had all fallen apart she'd found it all the more ironic since their love story had ended in disaster too.

But she's not Ilsa and he's not Rick, because they're not a _they_ anymore. Their ending hadn't been some selfless act for queen and country and the fate of the world as they had known. It had been Conrad, lashing out. Conrad, lying. Conrad, showing her that he would never be the man that she had known he could be. It hadn't been him sending her away because he'd known they both had purposes they had to fulfill. It had been choosing to betray in her in the most painful way possible, because it had been something that couldn't ever be undone, and her walking away as a result.

After all, the US military didn't just let men go because their fiance hadn't been informed that they enlisted behind their back. She'd checked.

She shakes her head, her eyes shooting daggers at him "Fuck you, Conrad. I am _not_ that girl anymore, and you are _certainly_ not that man." Brooke snaps spitefully, doing her absolute best not to meet his gaze. She turns away from him, unable to linger in his sight. "There is _no_ way she didn't know. None."

She can't cave this time, she warns herself. She can_not_ let him in, not now and not ever. Conrad Hawkins is as bad for her life as he's always been, for her soul, for her future. And Jude...Jude is _good_. He's kind and sweet and honest and all of the things that she's ever wanted, and right now all she wants to do is forget that the man standing before her exists. Because maybe, just maybe, she'd somehow forget _why_ she needs to forget him in the first place - because he has a pull on her that she still doesn't understand.

He sighs from the other side of the room, soft and slow, and she can hear him take a few steps forward. He doesn't touch her, but she knows he's close enough to reach out to her if he wants. It doesn't matter how long it's been, how many years have passed. His body still calls to her like the goddamn Pied Piper and despite her brain screaming at her that she knows better, her heart is a different story. Nearly a decade has passed and _still_, she craves him like her next fix. Brooke's eyes involuntarily slip shut as she breathes the rare air around her. It's been nine _years_. Nine goddamn years, and her skin still sparks with the need for his hands to be on her.

"I get showing up here for her care, I do. Chastain's still the best in the South." His voice is quiet behind her, barely above a murmur. "But dating my former squad mate, that's...you're calling that just a _coincidence_?"

She nods as tears prick her eyes, trying to breathe normally. "I met him...I met him in New York, some charity function I went to. I didn't know that he even knew you before today." She chokes out, shaking her head.

"Brooke..."

Jesus, even the way he says her name still makes her weak in the knees. She slowly turns to face him, finding him a mere few inches away. She knows that look on his face, the one where he's just _itching_ to touch her. But he restrains himself, and she feels her fists clench as his gaze hardens because deep down she knows what comes next.

"You leave me_ two days before our wedding_, and then almost a decade later you're flying across the country with a guy I served with? Don't lie to me, Brooke. You're better than that."

_There_ he is, Brooke thinks to herself as her lips curl up into a sneer. There's the man that she'd chose to leave, the one who'd socked his father in the jaw at their rehearsal dinner for revealing some less than flattering information about his son to her. _There's_ the man that had rounded on her like some wild animal when she'd tried to pull him off, the one who she had realized she couldn't ever truly trust. The real Conrad rears his ugly, jealous head and she's grateful that he's done it so soon.

"No, Conrad. That is me moving on with a man who I had no idea was _remotely _attached to you. Because if I'd have known that Jude had served with you in that godforsaken hell hole, I'd have run in the other direction." Brooke viciously shoots back, her eyes narrowed dangerously. Her hands drop to her side in clenched fists. "You cannot be that self centered that you think that I chose to fall for someone based on their connection to _you_. You're not that _stupid_."

He laughs. He honest to god _laughs_ at her, and she knows that she's wounded him. His eyes are dark, almost chocolate brown, and she can practically predict his next move. "So you leave me because I enlist, and then the next guy that you _attempt_ to settle down with is a two tour vet?" Conrad lets out another dark chuckle, shaking his head. "Pretty shitty move on your part, don't you think? Dump one soldier just to go fuck another one?"

Her hand lashes out on pure impulse, slapping him square across his perfectly chiseled jaw with a thunderous crack. Brooke watches him stagger back, repulsed by his words. How _dare_ her? How dare he trivialize the ending of their relationship for sport? How could he use that as a shot right now? The tears that had formed in her eyes burn like poison as they dry, her voice venomous as he looks at her with regret.

"Don't you fucking _dare_. You don't get to stand there and judge me for my decision that I made _nine years ago _before I even knew that men like Jude _existed_." Her words are acid violently spewing from her mouth with every ounce of hate and anger that she's endured.

Brooke doesn't stop as Conrad rises, as he tries to interrupt her. "Brooke..."

"You have _no_ right to stand here and make me out to be some whore, Conrad. None. I make no apologies for how I chose to repair what you broke. None. And for the record? I left you because you enlisted two weeks before our wedding _behind my back_, not because you decided to serve your country. And that, Conrad, is on _you_. And _you_ don't get to call me a whore!"

She doesn't care that Conrad looks like she just cut him down to size, that he finally appears like the child that he's behaving as. She doesn't care because she wants him to hurt as badly as she had the second she saw that nurse wearing what she now clearly knows had been _her_ ring. She wants Conrad Hawkins to burn as badly as she does, even if it means setting herself on fire right along with him.

_\- - - - _x - - - -

She's shaking.

He realizes it just after her lightning quick slap has nearly rocked him off of his feet, while his head hangs there frozen with the imprint of her palm stretched across his cheek as she lays into him. Somewhere in the middle of her spitefully vicious snarls he finally manages to raise his head, to meet her gaze, and he sees her. She's trembling with rage and hurt and vulnerability, and it takes everything in him not to reach out and comfort her because it's all he knows how to do.

He wants to take everything he's just said back, because he _knows_ what a fucking jackass he is for saying it. He knows that he can better than this, because he _is _better. He's not the man that he had been when he'd loved her, the one who would've set the world on fire just to watch it burn. He's become the good guy that slays dragons and champions the sick, injured and uninsured. He's become Nic's good boyfriend, the one that she's proud to be with, the one whose hand she holds when she walks out of the hospital. He's a man with passion and drive, with purpose and goals, with ethics and morals. Conrad is a man who knows who he is, for better or worse, and he knows who he isn't. He is _not_ the guy who slut shames a girl because he's hurt by her actions. He's not the vindictive and out of control bastard that lost Brooke in the first place. He's not the guy that starts fights everywhere he goes because he wants to watch someone bleed. He's not the guy that says the wrong thing and ends up losing everything. He's grown up, he's matured. He can't be that hot headed medical student that he'd been all those years ago, because he _isn't_ that man anymore.

So how does seeing her with Jude, seeing her with _anyone, _still enough to drive him bat shit crazy with jealousy? How is it still enough to turn him into that man again?

His medical license, his apartment, his pick up truck, his vinyl record collection; he'll give her whatever she wants as long as she stops looking at him like he's single worst thing that has ever happened to her. His kidney, his liver, his tongue, his spleen; he'll cut out whatever's left of his bloodied soul with a dull scalpel and serve it to her on a platter over a tossed salad if it will soothe her pain. He'll give her whatever the hell he wants if she'll just _stop hating him_.

But from the virulent sheen in her eyes he knows that it doesn't matter what earthly gifts he can give her, no matter how lavish or masochistic the offering. She doesn't care that Conrad's heart is being ripped out of his body with her biting tone, that every word she yells is like a pound of salt being rubbed into his now empty chest cavity, that tears are starting to form in his eyes. She wants him to hurt, wants him to feel the same rage that's coursing through her - and the worst part is, he doesn't blame her.

Conrad closes his eyes, his brow furrowing in pain. She finally stops yelling, standing before him shivering with an inferno like temper that's threatening to explode. He's not sure of what to say, of what will make this all better, and mostly because he knows he isn't the one to make things better _for_ her anymore. She's not his to be aching for, to be yearning for, and he can't go through this every day. He can't see her like this, beautiful and broken and somehow the most resilient woman he's ever met, and _not_ be that man for her. For better or worse, Brooke is still his weakness. The difference is, this time he knows it.

"I think it would be better if another resident took this case." Conrad murmurs, his eyes slowly opening. "For...both of us."

He realizes as soon as the words leave his mouth, that it must be the last thing she wants to hear. She's stunned, to say the least. Brooke looks like he's just sucker punched her, her mouth hanging open just enough to show her shock. He'd like to say that he's forgotten how stunning she is, how even when she's crying she looks absolutely radiant, but that would be a complete and utter lie, and she still takes his breath away. Her hazel eyes glisten with unshed tears as she tries to compose herself, clearly struggling with keeping her words at a reasonable volume and tone.

"If it were up to me, I'd tell you to go to hell and ask for you to be removed. But Peyton..." Brooke's voice hoarse, just rough enough for her to clear her throat as tears brim in her eyes. She wipes away any traitors that have fallen, and he remembers how much she hates to be vulnerable in front of people. "Peyton deserves the best, she _needs_ the best, which everyone says that _you_ are. I know we have our history.."

"Can you honestly say that you're going to be okay seeing me every day?" Conrad asks softly, taking another step closer to her. He's mere inches from her now, so close that he can smell her perfume. He breathes it in and almost smiles at the familiar scent of jasmine and magnolia, but he stops himself. He shouldn't have to do this, he thinks to himself. He shouldn't have to side step around her like she's scattered a dozen eggshells around her feet as protection from him. _He_ isn't the one who left her, _she_ did that. If it hadn't been for her choice, she'd have become Mrs. Brooke Davis-Hawkins, maybe even the mother of his children by now; Jude wouldn't be near her, at least not like this.

_Jude_.

Conrad's heart hardens at the thought of the two of them together. Sure, it's sweet gentle embraces and kisses when they're in the hospital, but he _knows_ Brooke. He'd been with her for two years. He knows what's it's like to be in a relationship with her, how in tune she is with her body, how she craves being needed and loved and savored. He knows those insatiable urges, the one that sneak into her bloodstream at three in the morning because she has too much on her mind and needs to find a way to calm her thoughts. He knows what it's like to be the only salvation to her wounds, to be the cure to every strife her body carries. He knows what she's like behind closed doors, how absentmindedly running a hand along the base of neck while cooking dinner could lead to shoving everything and anything off the countertop because her hunger strays from whatever's on the stove to the most carnal urges that linger in her soul. _He_ had been the one that had practically drawn the goddamn map to making her scream with pleasure, _not_ Jude. He knows what spots to press his lips to, where to trace circles with his fingertips, where to grasp and hold on for dear life. He know when to be tender with her, when to be rough, when to worship her until she knows that she's the only thing that keeps him upright and breathing, when to take control her and show her exactly how possessive he can be. He knows when to take her to bed and when to take her wherever the hell he may be, how to make her moan his name in sheer need, how to make her fall apart with nothing but a flick of his tongue.

_He _knows that, not Jude. Those were once his territories, his claim to Brooke Penelope Davis stretching far and wide across every glorious inch of her voluptuous body - and yet, his former best friend is now the one who goes to bed with her every night and fuck her seven ways from Sunday if he wants. He's the one that gets to have visions of grandeur with her, plan with her, love her, cherish her, maybe even _marry_ her. He gets to have the future that Conrad had once been promised. He'll fall asleep beside her, her leg wrapped around him like an ivy to brick while her head rises and falls with his breathing, and know that when he wakes she'll be right beside him with a sleepy sated smile on her lips. He gets to satisfy her hopes, build up her dreams. He gets to carry her worries, to hold her hand when hardships reach her. He is now the object of Brooke's affection, the center of her universe, the man that Conrad had so desperately wanted to be for the rest of his time in this world.

And it makes him want to murder Jude Silva with his bare hands.

It all runs through his head as he stands there, watching her struggle with the question. Every little thought twists the knife that she'd left in his heart all of those years ago a little deeper and the fresh wounds to his pride score like brands. Conrad feels it change him, feels his control begin to slip away, and his jaw clenches in physical pain. "Because I don't think I can be. I can't watch you...with _him_ and be okay with that. I can't be comfortable with the two of you...together." Conrad finishes. His fists are balled up, his shoulders have tensed and his entire body feels the anger he'd claimed to let go of rush through him.

Brooke winces, shaking her head in disbelief. "Why? Because it's not you?" She scoffs, and his blood practically boils from her tone. "Jesus Christ, Conrad. It's been nine _years_. Do you have any idea how petty you sound right now?"

Conrad's lashing out before he has a chance to think about what he's saying, before he can check his disdain, and his words are nothing short of vicious. "Don't flatter yourself, Brooke. If you want to go and fuck Jude, go right ahead - but it's inappropriate at best and a breach of ethics at worst. You're his patient's point of contact. It's _wrong_, and deep down you know it too."

As if like magic, he watches her transform in the blink of an eye. The cool, calm and collected CEO of a billion dollar company claims her body as its own, a woman who so clearly commands the attention of every boardroom she walks into and simply doesn't accept the word "no". It throws him off, leaves him standing there dumbfounded as he watches the woman he used to know inside and out shift into someone he doesn't even recognize.

"Let me make myself clear, Conrad." Brooke says savagely, her voice quiet but powerful all at once. "I _do not give a damn_ if it's uncomfortable to you. So get past our history because that woman in there? She's my family. She is the closest thing I have to a sister and the most important person in my life. So when I say that you need to be on your A game, I am not talking to you as your ex-fiance. I am talking to as the CEO of one of _the_ most profitable fashion empires in the _world_. I am talking to you as a woman who donates _millions_ of dollars every year to the medical community, who could and very possibly will single-handedly provide the funds for Chastain to get back on its feet after this debacle with Lane Hunter. And if you can't get past who I'm choosing to _fuck_, then that won't just be your loss. It'll be your hospital's. Your doctors. Your nurses. And that will hang _directly_ on your shoulders."

He pauses, letting her words resonate. Her words are sharp, puncturing every inch of his body as he struggles to stay upright. He finds himself searching her hazel eyes for _his_ Brooke, his Pretty Girl, his _world_...and she's not there. He nods wordlessly, trying to find a way out of this because seeing her like this, some cold hearted version of the girl he'd once loved, is the most painful thing he's ever endured. "She should have the hysterectomy, Brooke." Conrad replies, meeting her gaze once more. "It's the only way they can find out how deep this thing goes, if they can even get it out in the firs-"

"I will take your opinion, as well as the opinions of Dr. Silva and Dr. Bell under advisement and discuss it with Peyton. Now if you'll excuse me, _Doctor Hawkins_, I'd like to get back to your patient so she and I can discuss her options." Brooke say tartly as she turns on her heels, walking quickly towards the door. She stalls at the entrance, her hand on the knob, and he's half expecting her to turn back to him and start screaming again.

But she doesn't.

She lingers there for a beat, the only sound in the room their heavy breathing. He longs to walk over to her and embrace her, to stroke her hair the way he knows calms and and tell her that everything is going to be, even if he has to destroy anyone else around them to do it. He wants to be her rock, her safe place, her Broody. But he knows he can't as Nic pops into his mind, and he lets out a beleaguered sigh that practically echoes against the silence.

Finally, just when he's about to speak up and tell her that he'll do it, she turns to him. Her face is somber, wistful even, and the ghost of a smile that crosses her lips is creased with pain. Her lacquered lips part, and her voice is as soft as a whisper. "But somehow...just because you despise me, _you_ are the only one I trust." Brooke murmurs as she looks at him with tearful eyes, and his heart practically stops in his chest as she leaves him with nothing but a Casablanca quote and an empty office for him to break down in.

And that's exactly what he does.

Conrad lets the sob that he's been holding in rip through him as he stumbles forward, locking the door behind the woman who's probably running down the hall to get away from him. His hands are shaking as he leans against the door and he doesn't know from what. The regret, the anguish, the guilt; it's all swarming around him like the perfect storm and his body isn't his own. He's not the good doctor, the good Marine, the good boyfriend, the good anything. He's that twenty three year old kid who's just lost the love of his life, the one who'd made a choice that had cost him the woman he loved and set him on the course that had led him to this moment - the one that had big dreams that didn't include the Winthrop name or money.

He presses his back against the door, dropping to the floor so quickly he thinks he might go through it. He wants to scream, wants to shatter every piece of furniture in this office. But as broken sobs tear through his lungs he can't find the strength. All he can find is the sound of her voice and the horrified look on her face, letting it slice through him over and over again until he finally thinks he's had enough - and then he keeps doing it, because he never will.

Because Brooke's right. It's on him, and it _always_ will be.

_\- - - - _x - - - -

It's as quiet as the pews during Sunday mass when she finally makes it back to Peyton's room, the evening sun just beginning to fade into the night. The blonde is laying in bed, her eyes focused on the horizon as one of her favorite songs flows softly from the speakers of the nearby record player. She looks so poised, so still, so _very_ un-Peyton Sawyer. Brooke lingers in the doorway as she watches her best friend smile softly at the sunset, and it's one of those long lost moments where it all seems so simple. The path is so clearly laid out before them. Get Peyton better, go back to New York, continue to take over the world. It's not philosophical or poignant, not overexplanatory. It's blunt, to the point, and everything that Peyton Elizabeth Sawyer is.

"You have caused quite the commotion, P. Sawyer." Brooke remarks from the doorway, leaning against its frame.

Peyton's head doesn't turn at the sound. In fact, she doesn't move a muscle. Instead, she simply holds up one single finger and closes her eyes, her hazy smile widening. "Shh, this is my favorite part." She chastises, her head bobbing gently. "_Why does it always rain on me, is it because I lied when I was seventeen..."_ She sings softly, that resilient look of complete comfort lingering on her features.

"_Why does it always rain on me, even when the sun is shining, I can't avoid the lightning." _Brooke finishes, sighing out her words in her jagged voice as she enters the room. She doesn't speak as she walks toward her, sitting down on the edge of the hospital bed. "You used to have that song on repeat when we were younger, I'd have to beg you to turn it off." She reminisces, her lips tugging up into a smirk. "You couldn't ever play anything normal, could you? It always had to be those depressing emo bands."

"And what, Christina Aguilera was so much better? You needed the exposure to a singer without a belly button piercing. Be grateful." Peyton snorts, taking her hand as she finally turns her head to face her. "Are you going to tell me what happened between you and your Broody boy?" She impassively remarks, her gaze overbearing as always.

"I miss that room sometimes." Brooke murmurs gently, her thumb running over the delicate skin of her friend's hand as she tries to sidestep the conversation. "The red walls, that big four poster bed, your dreary sketches hanging from the ceiling. It was always so safe, you know?"

"It was that bad, huh?"

She sighs, her eyes cutting through the air at Peyton. She wants to yell at her, to unleash her anger. But all she finds is quiet disappointment in how Conrad had reacted "What _exactly_ were you expecting?" Brooke grumbles, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. "I pretty much left him at the altar, and it turns out that he served in the same unit as Jude. _Bad_ doesn't even cover how pissed off he is. He basically called me a whore and told me he doesn't want me here."

"And what were you? Peachy keen and leaping into his questions?" She teases with a raised eyebrow, squeezing her hand weakly. "Don't act like I don't know how you are when you get cornered."

"And yet _here_ we are." Brooke sarcastically quips. She cringes at the not so distant memory of Conrad's words. "You really suck for not telling me, you know that? You could've warned me."

"Well if I had done that, we'd be in Seattle. And I hate the rain, it's hell on my hair." Peyton shoots back, but her words don't hold any venom. The hostility is gone, the snappy comebacks faded, and Brooke knows that she's exhausted. But the blonde just takes a deep breath and pushes past it. "Look, I get that we never would have gotten close again if you hadn't have come home after you left him, so I should probably be grateful to the guy. But come _on_, Brooke. The only man you've been involved with since you left him turns out to basically _be_ him, and of all the guys in the world, you wind up with a guy that he served with in Afghanistan? It has to count for _something_."

_"That has to count for something. It's like what Rick says...o__f all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine_._"_

Her memories dance around her like spirits as she glowers at Peyton, pursing her lips in frustration. "Yes, that I like cute doctors who are strong enough to throw me around like a rag doll. Congratulations. You've nailed down my type." Brooke snaps from her edge of the bed. She wants to never talk about it again, to forget that she's even seen Conrad - but it's better than talking about the reason they're in Atlanta in the first place.

"And what does your _first_ cute brilliant doctor have to say about my monster of a tumor?"

Brooke freezes. Her gaze drops to their now entwined hands, the fear and sadness slipping into her features so much that she can't meet her amber gaze. She can't speak, can't find the right words to say what she needs to, and as always...Peyton finds them for her. There's a sigh from her side of the bed, but no spiteful words of rage. There's just empty air that Peyton slices through when she finally speaks.

"They want to take out everything, don't they?" She murmurs, exhaling slowly. "My uterus, my ovaries...all of it. That's what they're all recommending."

She shifts her focus back on the patient, gulping in panic. Peyton's eyes have become riveted on the ceiling, her head laying back against the pillows. She looks almost resigned to her fate. as if she's been bracing for impact since the moment they'd landed in Atlanta, and it breaks Brooke's heart that she'd known that it would all come down to this. She has to be the strong one this time, Brooke reminds herself. She doesn't have the luxury of breaking down right now. She has to be the rock, the one that will hold it all down so Peyton can focus on fighting her cancer. And so she just matches her counterpart's inhale and nods, squeezing her hand tightly. "Jude and Dr. Bell...they're concerned that the scan isn't showing everything. And if they go in, they're flying blind until..."

"Until they scrape out everything that makes me a woman? Until they cut and slice away any chance I have to actually have a family? To have a future?" Peyton finishes. The fight is back in her eyes, the bitter resentment of the disease that's lodged itself in her body. Her tone is biting, the horror on her face stinging even more. She yanks her hand away, raking her fingertips over her curls as she violently shakes her head in rebellion. "No. I won't do it. If I do that, my life as I know it is _over_."

"Peyton, you have stage four ovarian cancer. We are a million miles from home and as we argue over this, it's spreading to your other organs. Life as we know it _is_ over." The words are blunt and she hates herself for saying them, but she knows it's what Peyton needs to hear. She can't sugar coat this. She knows it. There is no dancing around what's going on. "But that doesn't mean your life has to be over. You just have to be _alive_ to have a future, and that's what they're trying to do. They're trying to keep you alive so we can take those next steps, so we can worry about those things later on when you're better." Brooke defends, doing her very best to keep her composure. She wants to tell her that everything will be okay, that they can get through this. But after looking at the scans, after hearing Conrad tell her that this _has_ to happen, she doesn't know how. "You know better than anyone that adoption is an incredible option, but you just have to b-"

"I want kids, Brooke! Kids of my _own_. I want kids with my chicken legs and crazy curls, ones that have Ellie's taste in music and draws until her fingers cramp!" Peyton cries out, her head in her hands as she begins to sob. "We came here because that woman was supposed to give me a shot, and now-"

"And now you have three of the best doctors in the country working on giving you one. But you have to be _here_ to have that shot." Brooke says fiercely, her hands reaching for the blonde's. She moves them out of the way, cupping Peyton's cheeks lovingly. "Hey, look at me. We are not done here. We are not done fighting, because your stupidly skinny ass is not going _anywhere_ unless I say so. So you don't get to give up on me now, do you understand me?"

She's quiet, her eyes squeezed shut when she finally nods weakly. "Okay." Peyton chokes out, tears sliding down her sunken cheeks. "Okay, I'll do it. I'll do the surgery."

Delicately, Brooke slides in beside her, wrapping her arms around her best friend and holding onto her tightly as Peyton buries her face into her chest and sobs. Brooke doesn't speak, she doesn't move a muscle. She doesn't try to placate her feelings. She doesn't try to make everything better. She knows she can't make this magically disappear, that _nothing_ will ever make this better. Over the last month, they've fought tooth and nail to make sure that this wouldn't happen and yet...here they are, sitting in a hospital bed across the country from their home, grieving for a future that Peyton my have had a chance at.

Brooke can't hold back the tears anymore as she presses a soft kiss to the top of Peyton's head, holding her tightly. There's nothing that Brooke can do except be there, right beside her, for whatever she may need. And there isn't enough bourbon in Kentucky to make the pain stop.

She just prays that Conrad is as good as Jude says he is.

_\- - - - _x - - - -

"So, what's she like?"

He's laying in bed next to his very naked girlfriend, tracing the ridges of her spine as he finally closes his eyes. Conrad had done his best to get out as quickly as possible after the debacle of a conversation he'd had with Brooke, all but dragging Nic out of the hospital with him. He hadn't even really been thinking when they'd gotten back after grabbing something to eat. A kiss at the door had turned into clothes being shed, which had lead to falling into the bed and finally to making love to his caring girlfriend. It's the same rhythm that he's followed with her since they got back together, the ease and the comfort bringing him a certain sort of peace. But tonight had been different.

Tonight, Conrad hadn't been there. Not even in the neighborhood of there. Yes, he'd gone through the motions, but that had been it. There hadn't been an incredible moment, a perfect set of seconds where he'd been absolutely centered in her embrace. There hadn't been any kind of refuge, not even close. It had just been muscle memory. It had been like his hands weren't his own, like he'd been watching it from somewhere else in the room. It had been good - there isn't a time where it's ever _not_ good - but...something's got him thrown off.

Fuck that. He knows _exactly_ what has him thrown off, and it's the woman that his girlfriend's asking him about. The beautiful, powerful, headstrong titan of a woman that he's laying there thinking about while he should be paying attention to the girl in his arms. Where he should see the blonde nurse, feel her in his hands, he finds a ghost lingering in her place. He's being haunted by her, by the words that she'd howled and the blows that she'd thrown. She's tormenting him, reappearing at the most inopportune moments. Even now, he swears that he can feel her spectre sitting in the corner, hovering just close enough to cause discomfort.

"Who?' Conrad mumbles, pressing an absentminded kiss to her forehead as he feigns ignorance. He can practically hear her voice in his head, taunting him.

_Nice one, Broody. _Her apparition snorts from a nearby chair, and he can practically hear her crossing her legs and leaning back to watch the show. _Go ahead, lie your way out of this one too. You got all the practice rounds out on me, you might as well show your expertise on her._

_Get out of my head, Brooke. You're not innocent_ _either. _He thinks to himself as he tries to stay calm. She's a tumor, sopping up his focus and energy, and he'd give anything to take a scalpel to his memories right now.

Nic rolls over, propping herself up onto her elbows. "What do you mean _who_? You spent your day with Mina's idol. She kept going on and on about the famous Brooke Davis when she saw me after shift, comparing some of her designs to surgery. And now I hear that she's dating Jude of all people, so now I _have_ to know what's she like?"

He opens his eyes, staring at the ceiling as she draws circles on his chest with her fingertips. He gulps down his panic, trying to figure out the words to say. He runs through it in his head, how it might play out if he makes the decision to tell her the truth. But the shadow of Brooke that's scraping at the back of his brain does it for him.

_Oh this ought to be good. Here, let me lay it out for you._ Brooke's voice practically giggles with glee. She's a vindictive bitch nipping at his mind's heels, a wolf at the door, and he wishes he could rip her out of his thoughts. _Brooke Davis? Well here's the thing, sweetie pie. S__he's my ex-fiance. I almost married her before I went to Afghanistan. And that ring I gave you? It's the engagement ring I gave to her first, so it's really just her sloppy seconds. Kind of like me! So, hospital cafe for breakfast tomorrow?_

Jesus, she's making sense now. He's royally fucked.

"She's..." He pauses, choosing his words very carefully. He shrugs, as if he's making some brilliant observation. "She's stubborn, hard headed, bullish even. I even watched her put Bell and Jude in their place. She flew her best friend across the country to get the care she needs, so clearly she cares about the people she loves. I think she'll do everything in her power to make sure that we do right by her." Conrad says softly. It's an omission at best, a terrible lie at worst, but he doesn't want to hurt Nic. So he just keeps going. "Mina's right. She's talented as all hell, but she's humble about it. She doesn't remind you that she's Brooke Davis. She's really simple, I think...but she's also one of the most complicated people I've ever met."

He hears Brooke sigh dreamily in the back of his mind and his jaw clenches as she lets out a bitter laugh. _Oh, my hero. What do you want, a cookie? It's still a lie, Conrad. _

"And the patient's a record executive, right?"

Conrad nods, ignoring his thoughts as a small smirk appearing on his lips. "Her name's Peyton. She owns Red Bedroom Records. I guess her special request was that she made them put a record player in her room. I liked her the second I saw that she had Gary Clark Jr. and The Kinks in the stack of records they schlepped into her room."

"God, they sound _incredible_." Nic practically gushes as she bats her eyelashes at him, and he internally relaxes because she's either that oblivious or she's bought his sidesteps. "Think you could get me on the case? I'd love to meet them both. Maybe we could even get them to do something for the children's wing...they must have some incredible connections."

Fuck. Of _course_ she wants on the case, he's just told her that he's working with the dream team of patients. Brooke's a major fashion designer and Peyton owns one of the last truly indie record labels in the nation. He should've told her that Brooke's a raging bitch on wheels, that she's demanding and needy and...fuck, why did they have to come _here_?

"Bell's pretty tight on this one. Besides, I think you'd butt heads with Brooke. She's been pretty opinionated about Peyton's care." Conrad lies through his teeth, which are gritted as tight as they can possibly be. He's an asshole. He's a monumental asshole and he knows he's going to pay for it later, but he can't tell her. Brooke hasn't told Jude, and he can't just blow up her world. Not again. "She can be a real pain in the ass."

"Hmm..." Nic sighs against his chest, pressing a soft kiss to the skin where she rests her head. "Sounds like you've got your hands full with her." She murmurs with a quiet laugh, drifting off to some well earned sleep.

_Hands **full** with me? Oh, she's just making it way too easy. We both know that I'm **more** than a handful in every sense of the word. _Brooke's teasing tone makes him want to slam his head against a wall just to make it stop. _Why don't you just admit it? __Nobody will ever do it for you like I do, and you'll never love anyone like you love me._

_\- - - - _x - - - -

_She's racing through the halls, trying to find Jude. She needs to escape, to disappear in thin air. She needs to breathe again, to fill her lungs with something other than the agonizing screams that currently reside there. And so she runs, her eyes still clouded with tears, and finds him at the nurse's station. She feels her heart break all over again when she sees him, halting all movement. He's standing with the pretty blonde nurse that she'd seen in the cafeteria, the plainly beautiful gargantuan of a woman who has **her** ring on her index finger. Brooke's eyes narrow viciously as she spots it but her tears make it useless as she watches them talk. Jude's grinning as the two of them laugh over something they only know, but when his eyes land on her...he's running too._

_He sweeps her into his strong arms with a bone crushing embrace. Her eyes slip shut in solace, in peace, in the achingly sweet emotions of his actions. Brooke sobs into his shoulder, wordless and jagged. The whole world fades away as he his lips to the side of her head, soft and gentle words being whispered into her ear. Everything's going to be okay and we'll find a way fill her with hope, with promise, and she feels safe for just a split second. Her eyes open to find the nurse watching them intently - too intently for her liking. Brooke can't even stop herself as her arms wind tighter around Jude, her hand scraping the back of his neck. She's possessive of what's hers, what's always been hers - but it's not even close to being over Jude._

_It's over that goddamn ring, because she knows what it means. That beautiful gem, the one that had belonged to the first love of Conrad's life, means that her ex-fiance in love with Blondie - or at least something close to it - and it puts her into a fit of rage that she didn't think she could muster up anymore. Because Jude is hers, and this blonde is looking at him almost...longingly._

_Brooke's lips move to Jude's ear, pressing against the sensitive skin. She feels his grip tighten, a low wordless sound rumbling in his chest, and she knows exactly what she's doing when she whispers, "take me somewhere...somewhere you can make me forget everything." __Brooke locks eyes with the blonde once more, her gaze ringing as clear as a bell._

_**Mine**._

_She's in an on call room, her clothes practically falling to the floor. Jude is a force of nature, his strong form keeping her body pressed against a small desk. They kiss passionately, her moans filling the small spaces that their lips and tongues leave open. Her heart is racing as everything begins to melt away, as Jude kisses his way down to her panties. He gazes up at her as he pulls them down her legs slowly._

_"Tell me what you need, Brooke." He murmurs against her knee, his lips slowly moving north._

_She whimpers against him, her hand gripping the frame of a nearby bunk bed. His hands swipe away the papers that have been left on the desk before they lift her onto it, leaving her gasping as her leg are spread apart. "You...I need...you." Brooke groans as he kisses the inside of her thigh._

_"You have me." He chuckles against her skin and she practically bucks into him from the feeling of his voice rumbling between her legs._

_Her nails dig into his free shoulder, gasping for air. "Jesus Christ, Jude..."_

_Jude's fingers slip between her legs as soon as she says his name and she nearly cries out with pleasure as they find their home within her. Her eyes slip shut as shes leans generously into him, her body pressing back into the wall. She wants more, needs more, her nails digging into his skin as if to egg him on. She bites down hard on her lip as his fingers ardently delve within her, trying to bring her to her orgasm. Her mind is a jumble of medical files, flight information, business meetings, rings on fingers that they don't belong on, and surgical tries to clear her mind as her boyfriend works diligently, his free hand sliding up and underneath her body to bring her even closer. Deep and urgent moans fill her throat. "More..." She whimpers out as her body clenches, almost in pain from being so close and yet so far._

_He pulls away from her center and kisses his way to her neck. His pants and boxers drop to the floor with a loud thud and she smiles devilishly. He nips at her skin, growling wordlessly into her as she grinds her body against him. He slips between her legs and before she can take a deep breath he's sheathing himself within her. She bites down on her bottom lip to keep the moan from slipping out, and when she hears him laugh..._

_Her eyes shoot open because it's not Jude's laugh._

_Jude rocks within her, his body claiming her as its own, but Brooke's eyes aren't anywhere near him. They're on the figure that sits on the bed behind them, watching them with some sort of morbid fascination. _

_**Conrad**._

_She cries out in surprise as she meets his fierce gaze, but she finds that she can't stop matching the rhythm of her partner's movements. She's a slave to her body's needs and cravings, her eyes locked on her ex-fiance's as he remains mute, watching her writhe in pleasure. He looks amused, entertained even, and it fills her with a feeling of power that she's never experienced more. __But all of sudden, she's not moving at all._

_She's sitting beside Conrad in the cramped twin bunk bed in nothing but his NYU t-shirt and a pair of cheer shorts, with his shirtless form just a few inches beside her in nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants. It's like they've just curled up in his dorm room bed to watch some fucked up movie, except the movie is her sex life with his former best friend. __She tilts her head to the side as she watches Jude thrust within her, her gaze almost clinical. The version of Brooke that's currently being fucked by her boyfriend is clenching her jaw in what looks to be frustration, clearly unable to complete the task that at hand - finding her release - and she pities the two of them. All that work and no great escape, no earth shattering moment where pain and ecstasy combine like in a perfect sweaty chemical reaction. **Wait**, she thinks to herself, **is it possible to pity a dream**?_

_"That's how you like it now? Pointless and unfulfilling?"_

_Conrad's smirking from his side of the bed that they're sitting in, gesturing to the pair of lovers that are bound to break the desk if they keep doing what they're doing. He looks amused, cocky, and she rolls her eyes at him. "Really, **this** is what you do in your spare time with him? Just hope that he'll get you off?" He says with another laugh, nudging her. "Tell me, how often do you have to finish yourself off when he's done?"_

_"I come for him **all **the time." Brooke chastises, watching the vision of her clamp her teeth over her lower lip to stifle her sounds. "See? I'm about to. You know that's my about-to-finish face. I'm biting down on my lip to keep myself from screaming his name. We're in a public place for God's sake, I do still have some class." She says matter of factly, folding her arms across her chest in defiance._

_He raises an eyebrow, eyeing her up and down in a way that sends tendrils of heat running up and down her body. "You sure about that, babe?" Conrad murmurs, his head leaning beside her ear. He's so close that she can feel the heat of his breath on her skin. "Or is it my name that you're trying to keep locked up in that gorgeous mouth of yours?"_

_The vision disappears as soon as the words fall from Conrad's lips, and the scene shifts again. Somehow they're in their old studio apartment on the Lower East Side, still in the same laid back attire. Brooke's standing in their dimly lit bedroom, Conrad standing a few feet away as he leans against the wall while he watches her intently. She holds out her hands and looks down to find her engagement ring, his mother's band, slipped back onto her finger like it's always belonged there, and yet in the nearby vanity mirror she can see that it's still present day her. Same wrinkles, same hair color, same cool gaze. It's her, and yet...it's not._

_"Tell me again how it's him that you're screaming for.." He drawls as he approaches her. He's slow, so slow that it's almost painful. He doesn't touch her, not a single fingertip. He just circles her like she's prey ensnared in his trap, but she knows deep down that she's his more than willing prisoner. She feels him move behind her, her skin shuddering with rampant desire. "Tell me again that you don't wish it was me touching you." He whispers into her ear, his hot breath unfurling on the nape of her neck. "That it's him that you want between your legs."_

_Brooke shivers from the sensation, her hands clenching the fabric of the oversized t-shirt that's hanging on her body. "Conrad, please...**don't**." She pleads._

_She finds bitter satisfaction when Conrad's hands slip along the curves of her hips and pull her against him, the sensation everything that she doesn't want to need. She can feel every inch of him before he spins her around to face him. His brown eyes are dark, hooded with desire as he drinks her in, and she's left speechless by the intensity of his gaze. _

_"Tell me, Brooke. Say it. Tell me that he knows you like I do." He growls, his hands grasping her curved waist and tugging her against him forcefully. She moans into his touch as their lips finally meet, the delicious strength of his grip driving her insane. He's just as good of a kisser as she remembers, his tongue running along her bottom lip and begging for entrance before he murmurs against them. "Tell me not to take advantage of you right here, right now, and I won't."_

_She groans as his hands climb north, slipping underneath the t-shirt. Brooke bites down on her bottom lip as he roughly pulls it over her head, tossing it to the side as her hair falls down on her bare shoulders. Her hands settle on his chest and his hands begin to wander further north. She gasps into his skin, bowing her head and sinking her teeth into his shoulder when they cup her breasts, fingertips coaxing her skin like a snake charmer. He growls wordlessly in pain, in addiction, in frustration. He tosses her like she's his own personal plaything and she falls back into the bed with a wildfire brimming inside of her. Their sheets still smell like him, she notices as he grasps the edges of her shorts with his eyes locked on hers, and she breathes in the intoxicating scent as her head falls back against the covers._

_"Say it, Brooke." Conrad hovers over her hips, a devilish grin on his lips. He looks like he wants to devour her - and it's **not** a metaphor for what she knows he wants to give her. "I won't give you what you so **clearly **need until you do. Not when you're not _mine_."_

_She looks down at him, at the hunger in his features, and the words are slipping out like a broken prayer before she can stop them. "Take advantage of me, Conrad...**please**_._" Brooke practically sobs out, her body calling to him and him alone. She needs him and here...she can have him without guilt or repercussions._

_His hands yank off her shorts brutally, kissing his way up her thighs and nibbling at the skin as he goes. Her body arches from the mattress, her nerves shot to hell as he throws her legs over his shoulders. It's like he knows what she wants before she's even asked, before she knows it herself, and his stubble burns the inside of her thigh so rough that she swears there's a mark left from it. Conrad knows how she needs it, how to drown out every thought and wash away all of her pain. She wants him everywhere, wants it insatiable and volatile and everything that their relationship had ever been. She wants to be fucked senseless, to not be able to walk when he's done with her, to be trembling under him on their king size bed and begging for more. _

_It's not about love. It's not about forever. It's about jealousy, about lust, about possession. And as Conrad buries his face between her legs, as she practically sobs in sweet relief, he belongs to **her**. It's **her **body that bucks into him like a wild animal, **her **eyes squeezed shut in pure indulgence, **her **hand fisting his hair because she wants to shamelessly shove his tongue deeper, **her **nails digging into his shoulders so hard they break skin. And when she finally comes for him, when her climax hits her like a earth shattering cataclysm, it's **his **name that she's crying out. He claims her as his, brands her with his mouth pressed to her firmly, and she's begging for more._

_He crawls up her body with a dark chuckle, his voice rumbling against her soft skin as he grazes his lips up her stomach. "There you are, Pretty Girl...uninhibited, undone, and **mine**." Conrad murmurs as she comes down from her orgasm, and before her body is even fully calm he's sliding down his sweatpants and cradling her body. His hands gently move the sweat coated strands of hair from her face, kissing her lips delicately as he holds her there, hovering over her entrance. He leans back, gazing down into her eyes. "I'm going to make sure that you remember this time...no one will ever know you like I do. **Never**." He whispers against her lips, and he doesn't waste another second. _

_His hand slides up her leg, pulling it tight around his waist and then one swift movement he's everywhere, slamming into her body with ease. __She screams out his name, the sound bouncing off the walls like the symphony of her undoing, and he picks up a relentless pace. Brooke doesn't have to think, doesn't have to move, all she has to do is hold on and let him fuck her into submission. It's just the two of them, Conrad's face buried into her neck and his hands pinning her hands above her head with his dominating gasp. Her legs wrap around him as she gets so close again, her body tightening around him as she pulsates with pure bliss._

_"Do you want to go back to the hotel, baby?" He grunts into her ear, and she leans back in confusion. What the hell would she need to go to a hotel right now? And why is he calling her baby? Pretty girl, babe, gorgeous, B; those she knows, _not _baby._

_But just as quick as her confusion comes, he lowers his head and his movements steady, his hardened length plunging within her as her body tightens up. His lips press to her neck, her collarbone, every inch of bare skin that he can find as he finds his own peace within her. Conrad's body deftly flips her on top of him, her body picking up the pace as she rides him. He groans out her name as his body bucks up into her, and she watches as his head falls back against the bed in rapture. Her name becomes a entranced prayer on his lips as she writhes her hips against him, her head falling back on her shoulders as she moans in rapture. Brooke's so close, and suddenly..._

"Baby...do you want to go back to the hotel?"

She wakes up with a jerk, her eyes shooting open with confusion. Brooke's eyes focus to the dull light of the hospital room to find Jude kneeling beside her, pushing the stray hairs from her face. She's slick with sweat, gasping for air, her body an infernal temperature. She licks her lips as she struggles to regulate her breathing, her hand pressed to her chest. Her eyes skate around the room, finding Peyton snoring away peacefully in her hospital bed.

"I'll just...I'll sleep here. I must've dozed off." Brooke groggily chokes out as she exhales slowly, trying to reign in her body. She's drenched - and it's _not _just her skin that's soaking wet. She gulps, looking up at him with a feeble smile. "You should go to the hotel. You have that big meeting in the morning with your dream team of doctors." She says softly.

"You must've had a pretty bad nightmare, I haven't seen you like this is a while..." Jude murmurs, cupping her cheek. "You sure you don't want me to stay with you?"

She hesitates for a moment, looking up at her earnest boyfriend. He's doing his best to be supportive, and all she can do is dream about her ex. She's a fucking horrible person, the least she can do is cave to his wishes, scooting over on the spacious couch wordlessly. He slips behind her before rolling her on top of his chest, her body practically weightless to his broad chest and strong stature. Jude presses a soft kiss to the top of her head as she curls up on his chest, tears pricking her eyes. "Go back to sleep, baby. I've got you." He murmurs into her hair as his arms wrap around her petite frame.

Brooke closes her eyes and prays to everything holy, her hand resting over Jude's heart as she squeezes the tears from her eyes; she prays for what she needs, not what she wants.

A peaceful dreamless sleep where not even Conrad Hawkins can find her.


End file.
